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Transformation is easier when you’ve been caught
With the ice cube stuck in your throat
If you can hold your breath long enough for the heat of your throat
To melt the ice cube, there’s no worry of suffication
The ice cube credibility test

Empathy is a soft sword
a knock on jelly
a whispered, whimsical word
the butter on belly

The box, a dry, wooden cube
with missing knots and rust spreading screws
was left behind, in the plastic shed at the end of the garden
that had become a maze of weeds and broken branches

A boy, no more than 5, roams the new wasteland,
his twitching fingers and wandering eyes, spy
the shed, then the box, then the truth

Shelve the tip of the nail
The snake venom, the clenched fang
Gummy tooth against glass beaker
Seeking the best taste from the worst liquid

At

He spoke at, not to
He laughed at, not with
He smiled at, not to
He kicked at, not to
He spat at, not passed
He looked through, not at

The molten pavement, warped by grit and gravity
Played a simon-says game with each passer by
Daring them to walk on its cracks

down the barrel
In a barrel
Around the barrel
Within the barrel
Through the barrel

the soap in the dish
The payoff and the risk
The procedure and the gift
The calm and the fit

this is what I expected
I envisioned a wall, brick and mortar
The sort to could spend a lifetime climbing
Instead, in actuality, the wall was all
Not to defeat, but to kiss, grind against
And repeat

jean was good about these things. first he would knead the clay for at least five minutes it builds arm strength plus the pug mill at the community center didn’t actually do anything aside from shaping the clay into one large cylindrical lump. he’d take his molded clay into the other room, sit down, center himself, exhale and plop. right in the middle of the wheel. then wet his hands, reinforce his elbow against his hip and press on the pedal. the clay so smooth, the excess water splashing outward all of it made him feel in control again. the world seemed easier then it usually did. not like the windy night that broke the screen door not the like the windy morning that stung his eyes and froze his fingertips. now there’s only warm water and slick possibilities. he didn’t even know what he was going to make. he’d been wanting to make a sake set but he hated sake so it seemed kind of useless. he could always sell it in some school sale. he was always told to price his “art” at a much higher rate but he really didn’t care; he wanted it to sell he didn’t want it anymore. plus lugging it around on his bike was asking for trouble he always broke pieces. he’d been getting better at gluing them back together. he used to fill in the cracks with white toothpaste until a frequent customer said their dog kept licking the vases and so now if he did glue stuff together he would tell his customers to fill it in for themselves when they got home and warn them to keep the stuff out of animal reach.
somehow while he was thinking of all this the clay had turned into a small sake container. oh well i guess that’s what he wanted. his favorite part or what he imagined would be his favorite part would be pressing the indentations into the side. he liked messing with soft clay. it was a pivotal moment everything could be ruined in one motion. he scraped the excess clay off the wheel and used his wire to do a light spin, added more water to the wheel and gentle as he didn’t know he could be until he started doing ceramics he slid the bottle onto a board. he wet his hands a bit more, positioned where he thought the divots should go and first lightly touched the two spots to make a mark. then with his thumb pushed in the first. the whole bottle gave slightly and a quick thin rush of fear moved up from his belly to his chest and rested in his cheeks. he pushed the other indentation because at that point all you can do is go forward. the warp corrected itself. the tightness of fear released, he felt a small slightly shameful swell of pride. not bad for a brute. not bad for a man who used to be in prison.