Spring 2008, vol. 12, no. 1

The potter tightens his hold
on my form to fit his
template for perfection—

his fingers working fiercely
at this late hour to cut
the fat from each new cell

complicit with my plans for
getting free of his touch. . .
while I writhe at his secret

for stillness: staying clear
of all that glitters around
me. And it’s no small matter

sending my world packing, out
of range of my hungry heart,
as my limbs lose ground in

putting out signals for
companionship. It’s no
miracle, this setting aside

the human pulse for satisfactions
dying in light of the morning.
But alas am I yet the grudging

participant in solutions for
love that will not leave with
the seasonal glow. Always!

will I say “Yes!” to sealing
the cracks in the armor that
shields me, from the devil’s

ancient claw.