your head is filled with the idea of conception.
not of a baby girl, not now
but that of the body—
curves that fit that hand.
made with the pressure of fingers on clay,
the spinning wheel keeps everything centered,
waste is only affected
by the centrifugal force
of the meaning
of the act.
my hands aren’t that accurate—
my thumbs get stuck in arthritic posture.
only good for pinch pots:
but still have form and purpose—
keepers of my secrets.
when the bowl breaks, the potter laughs.
when the bough breaks, that unconceived baby girl
falls through a dream and the circle of my arms.
you’re the one who wanted her.
make a bigger bowl next time,
we could sleep in it with milk.