The stuff that comes out a bird's mouth.
tonight i sculpted a back
not life-sized
–maybe three-quarter–
and somehow
i got it not quite right
the back was receding
as if just then turned away
and headed off to parts
unknowable
insert remark about
having seen enough backs
in that position
engaged in that act
of abandonment
that i should have been
able to push that clay around
blind
how easy to alter shape
a little augmentation here
a little amputation there
slick fingers
smoothing rough hills
filling crevices
made uniform
yet
passing
through the fire
it shrinks
it cracks
it weeps
the moisture boils out
like a microwaved potato
if you’re lucky
it’s not trash
you may be left with
a vessel
that can be filled
these hands hurt
when the knuckles squeeze
together
like old, emaciated hobos
hugging
all bones and angles
but in the clay
they feel nothing
but the clay
you have to keep it wet
the clay
or you’re going to lose it
the surface dries like leather
it won’t respond to your touch
won’t move under your fingers
without moisture
it ceases to be alive
and no amount of prodding or scraping
will open those half-closed eyes
or part those supple lips
not so picky about the details
or where the clay flies
the artist
pulls with the fine metal loop
tears out a huge
iris-shaped blob of soft clay
from the eye creating
the illusion of depth
and drives the tapered tip
of a paintbrush in
to make the pupil
it’s like those busts
at the haunted mansion
that seem to follow you
concave depressions
made to look like stone
but with the afterimage
of life
as they track you
these sculpted eyes too
follow you as you walk around it
even though they gaze into a future
of fire in the kiln
and uncertain finishes
the clay is pretty quiet
when you work it
it doesn’t talk
the mouth only opens
if you’ve taken the time
to make a mouth
even then
one side is higher
flatter
not quite
there’s no tongue
no teeth behind the facade
of lips
if you work the loop
fast enough
you can hear the clay
as it smooths out
and falls in curls
onto the table
that’s a kind
of subtractive talking
all goodbyes
all goodbyes
the lump is solid and dead and wet
when you unsack it
you don’t even pull it out
just let it slide out on its own
gravity does the dirty work
you just guide with with your hands
watch it impale itself on a wooden stake
not that it has a heart
not yet
and you hear it separate from its skin
which you reserve
the peeling off of skin
the baring of red flesh not yet alive
after all, this is eden
you haven’t breathed life into it
not yet
as you take it apart
cutting with wire and knives and fingers
you save the pieces for later
keeping the bits in the old skin
keeping them wet because when they dry,
they are useless shards
