HOLLY DAY

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. I 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 once
set in water as if touched by a ghost or a curse or disease.

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