Revisionist Poetry – Clay Experiments, v.2

In the low light of the studio
my hands knead wet clay — slow, patient, greedy.
I press, fold: a thumb makes a hollow,
a palm smooths a shoulder into being.

The clay remembers touch, remembers rhythm;
it accepts and resists, yielding its weight.
I carve a furrow, map a ridge, press a thumbprint —
small geographies of whatever I am.

The wheel sighs; the slabs of time grow thin.
In the kiln’s roar the body hardens, takes its skin:
glaze blinks, a scar becomes a shine,
work cools into a shape that keeps light.

Each piece is a proof, a small confession,
a palm-sized map of choices and mistakes.
At dusk I step back and read the room:
works on the wall like mirrors catching the last light.