CLAY-ME

I make myself two hands of clay because I don’t have hands,

two acrobat feet that I lose every time I run away.

I want to go home with the desire to make myself a mouth,

With parted lips, with folds, with a tongue, with breath.

Two eyes that can reflect

against the figures drawn by the backlighting.

I’ll invent a nipple that gets turned on in the cold

a second lazy one that curls up in its nest.

Collect, maybe,

dry grass for the braids and the storms.

I don’t know.

Maybe.

With clay,

turn myself back into a seed and expand,

turn myself into a ligament and then a nucleus

like a womb.

Like clay,
mold myself into a different body, a different life,

if I’m so inclined.