When I was in high school, I used to try
my hand at sculpting, finding a weird sense
of satisfaction as I pounded the air
bubbles from the lump of clay,
slapping the slab once, twice, thrice
against the wooden table.
I would pump the wheel, finding
solace in the whirl and hum as my
lump of clay because a pot, a cup, a
vase. Something that would hold water
better than my arguments could.
Sitting on the wooden stool, my
ass would lose feeling, and my hands
would grow a new skin of cracked clay,
as the walls of my vessel eventually folded
in on themselves, after too-many reshapings.
And finally, when I reached ceramic perfection,
my glazed master piece would pop and crack
and shatter in the kilm. Because those air bubbles?
I had missed one.