After forming my guilt
into words on the wall,
I watched you pound clay.
Methodically, you shaped it in your hands,
throwing it with brute force against
the table, molding
at the hurt manifested by
my clumsy hands.
I saw humanity in your movements,
divinity in the way the clay turned into
a perfect dish to be eaten from.
I looked up at you the way
a saint would look at the face
of God.
The world stopped spinning
and I could not cry.
