AT THE WHEEL
The clay warps and grows smooth beneath my hands, opens into
A mouth I can pour my day into. Inside this pot between my hands
Is a prison for the fights I walked away from, the answers I should have shouted
The anger that’s been balled up in my stomach, like another lump of clay
All day long.
I press the side of the spinning pot and now it’s a vase for flowers.
I imagine the flowers that will go into this vase filled with hate
Wonder if they’ll still bloom for days after being cut, ignorant of the poison
I poured into this vessel, or if they’ll wither and die immediately after being set in water
As if touched by a ghost, or a curse, or disease.