Silence

DAVE, 1844

 

I center the mound of clay,

draw up a jar,

slice it off the wheel,

and set it on the shelf

to dry.

Now I am a silent potter machine.

 

In my head,

I cannot stop the words from flowing:

lamentable,

philanthropic,

disenfranchised,

vulnerable.

But I don’t write them down,

and the words float away

like twigs in a stream,

stuck on a rock

for a moment

and then gone.