Her legs and arms grow hard from carrying
firewood for the kiln, buckets of water,
and lifting and kneading mounds of clay.
She molds more clay into the shapes
of hands, feet, and faces.
When Mr. Brackett points out what’s wrong,
her face heats like the kiln in the corner.
What if he’s right?
She can’t do this. She’s no Michelangelo.
Art is as dangerous as memory,
which can dart, spring, or hide in clay,
ready to snag her skirt, clutch her hair,
thrust a coat over her eyes, like the men
who took night as masks,
forced darkness to their side.
No one answered her cries for help.
No words stopped the pounding and poking
of fists, fingers, and feet.
Her mouth can’t hold the roar
knocking through her chest.
Her hand can’t melt the shard of ice she clutches.
She throws the clay across the room.
Mr. Brackett says, Pick it up. Start again.
She scrapes up the clay, flattens it,
keeps working to find a way
to live under the sky that stays far away.