Clay

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On the sill, torsos wrenched out of clay 
still bore the sculptor’s mark, the print 

of cocked thumb and nail. Tortured, vaguely
female, they shamed us. We crowded in, 

snickering, hands over mouths, and Sister Larson
said, Hush. In the dark corner the man 

looked up from wrists deep in slurry. 
He moved over, slammed a grey plug on a wheel, 

and hunkered down. What he made stilled us.
Something in long fingers grazing the perfect 

lip, drawing shapes out of the clay, shapes 
we’d have sworn we’d seen—but where? 

Storybooks? Dreams? What else did we know?
He punched them down, got up. Quiet, 

we filed out past the breathing kiln, shelves
lined with green ware drying, shrinking in 

whitening, waiting to be hardened in fire.