This is the first time I’ve ever shared my poetry with anyone. It is nerve-wracking to put myself out here like this (I’ve been sitting at my computer for 30 minutes debating on whether to hit “Publish” or not), but practice is the only way for it to improve. I am looking forward to the day when posting a poem doesn’t require so much bravery.
In the pottery studio, she works, quietly
hunched over the slippery clay that smells like cold dirt
and will soon, under her gentle touch, be a
masterpiece. Patiently she works, alert
and listening to the potters’ gossip around her,
but never interjecting with a thoughtless word
that she may soon regret. She listens
at her wheel, nothing said but everything heard.
Lumpy bowls perform pirouettes as these potters’
words patter on, complaining about life.
God, how I hate doctors. The rest all chime in instant
Agreement—all but the doctor’s patient wife.
They think she is shy, too insecure to interject, but
as she guides the clay—up, out, further up, in—
she is wise. She keeps dignified silence and holds
the half-made vase in her clay-caked hands, forming it as it spins.