A full moon goes by;
the new one brings my bleeding again –
though I still don’t know
if I can ever be a true woman
now the Swallow Clan’s Learning is gone.
But for now I’m content to learn the clay;
the digging is heavy,
the hauling is worse,
but when it’s mixed and ready
the clay holds magic,
a smoothness full of unborn pots
waiting for their potter –
and one day,
that will be me.
I could almost sleep
with the rhythm of rolling
long ropes of clay for Teesha to wind
up from the base of a giant pot;
I roll small balls between my palms
as we did for our saffron bowls –
my thumb in the middle making the hole,
fingers working to smooth the walls –
and though they’re only dried in air
not fired in the kiln,
I have made a cup and bowl each
for Mama, Nunu and me,
and a jug as ugly as Teesha’s –
jugs aren’t so easy.
But Mirna, daughter of potters
since the beginning of time,
sings with her wheel;
pots flow into their forms
between her long-fingered hands,
walls eggshell-thin:
bowls, vases and cups
all fit to be fired, painted and sold –
while I, when work is done,
try to mould small bits
as a child might play –
a child like I used to be.
I’ve made tablets for the palace scribes,
and when Mirna found I could write
I marked tablets for her
with how many feast cups or pots –
or even tablets –
we’ve supplied to the palace.
Mirna knows who we are
but the palace finds us an uncomfortable truth –
priest-folk who are no longer noble,
from an island that died.
of the lost village near Tarmara
where folk speak with our accent –
because the way I say some words:
‘octopus’ and ‘evening’ especially,
always sets people laughing –
and we smile when they say ‘valley’
because they say it like ‘bottom’.
I wear my potter’s hide kilt
over my shift, which used to be white,
stained now with purple and red.
My flounced skirt stored
till the day that Dada returns –
and even in my practice pots,
kneaded back into clay again,
I sign a swallow over a crocus,
the seal that would have been mine –
and Andras says
when we are free artisans
he will make me a seal of stone.
Dada will see that mark on a pot,
will wonder and search,
until he finds us.
But what I don’t know, when Dada comes,
is whether I want to be priest-folk again
now the land our clan cared for is gone –
because if I wasn’t working,
busy all day, tired at night,
grief would swallow me whole.
I know now why Nunu laughed
when I wished my family
I would offer anything
to change life back to how it used to be,
but even the gods can’t bring back the dead.
And Pellie, I think, has gone
to the deep underworld
from where there’s no return;
she doesn’t speak to me now,
in her own or her oracle voice;
my heart calls for her, and aches,
and sometimes, when I laugh with Teesha
or share a look that needs no words,
it aches even more.
So I tell Pellie my life, just in case she can hear,
tell her that Mama has learned to sweep –
she hums and smiles and loves her broom
and Mirna says the workshop floor
is cleaner than it’s ever been.
I tell her that Nunu
soothes crying babies
for the mothers in our lane
and is called Grandmother by all.
That Chance has grown tall
and found dog friends to roam with
but always returns
to our feet at night.
That Teesha is clever as well as kind,
sharing friendship,
teaching me more than clay,
and I am teaching her to write.
the purple slaves came
with their sledge of shells
my stomach clenched
and I could hardly breathe –
not from the stench
but the memory of fear,
and grief that I’ve found freedom
while others have not.
I tell her I’ve learned
to hide the nausea,
smile and thank them –
so Teesha has started to do the same.
And one day,
a master craftsman,
I’ll find the small bait-gatherers
to free them into
apprenticeship too.
Then I tell Pellie
of the swallow’s nest over
the door of our home;
I’ve seen swallows dance in the sky
and hope to see fledglings
in the nest come spring.
I tell her that although in our old life
Andras could not be my friend,
he is a true one,
and also:
his voice is deep as a song
his eyes are soft
and he makes me laugh.