Clay is always cranky so soon

         after creation.

Separation from the riverbank’s

         a nightmare.

Days remembered along the

         riverbed among the snails

and fishes flashing past.

         Worms

carving homes prematurely in him

         he sees now.

Flesh holds the memory of fingers

         dug deep into him

twisting         pulling         shaping

         rippedslappedawake

more to come I promise.

The hothands & hotbreath:

         “Making it up as you go along?”

he wants to say;

         still damp he knows to stay quiet.

But clay must talk

or it wouldn’t be clay.

But already he chafes at the

         clay covered nail that traces

his veins up his arm.

Each step away from the river

         is one closer to him, he thinks;

soon there’ll be nothing left of

         the riversmell on him.

The mud promises to hold his space in

         case he returns.

He’s taking the riverbank with him

         and the sweetness of clay.

Let it cling, let it cling to me he thinks.

         I don’t care what he says.

My Clay Man

We tell each other we like it this way:

things were too easy before–

fat apples dropped in your lap

never taste as sweet as the ones

you have to climb to get.

We say.

This way we have our homemade world.

We get to make everything ourselves.

We’d be fat we tell each other. Fat & stupid.

This way we learn. Now we’re smart.

We love the sweat that hangs off our lips and nose

to be licked off after a day’s work.

Burrow my nose in his chest and

smell his clay smell and breathe his clay soul.

Night time I hold his hand up to the light and

see the small silver fishes dart among the arteries,

hiding behind the knuckles shy and trembling.

In his dreams, the riverbank is never far.

Me, I’m a rib away from eternity.

From dirt.

Press my ear to his

and hear the call that

still echoes between the whorls

and curves of ear and brain.

His tears cry on my face and twist his smile out of shape.

Lick a finger and curve his lips around it

like a droopy jar wet from the potter’s wheel.

Fix it with a kiss. Stretch his smile with my fingers,

my clay man. Kiss it. Fix it.

I know I’ll have to do it again and again.

Tickle My Face

Tickle my face

with these green hopes,

sprung from the center

of my fine green heart.

Tickle and tease,

breathe on me with

your whistling breath

that warms and shakens

my limbs grown long.

Let me Adam walk

and Eve pirouette

with these lions and lambs

who wait with me in

the deep violet dusk.

Together we’ll lie

in the pink dimming hush

and wait for the one who

gave us these names

in the light gone long.