• Vol. 06
  • Chapter 07
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Sometimes it was tears, others spit
sometimes she pricked her finger
added a few drops to the water she mixed with earth
before throwing it all on the wheel and
shaping it into kitchenware.

We ate and drank from them, but didn't know
the table was laid with division of desire
hardened by fire.

She served sadness in her plates, anger in her cups;
fear and guilt in her bowls and jugs;
we sipped her loneliness from her coffee mugs.

She used to say, “The best thing for women is to be least talked about among men, whether in praise or blame.”
A man must have told her.

Her flower vases were for a love that never came.

In her home she spent her days
as a god
playing with clay
or a little girl
playing with mud
but never looked inside a mirror
without seeing that place
where everything was neatly kept and left unspoken.