Our Ways of Breathing

If I'm honest,

most days there's a

lump of clay

on my chest,

and the only way

to breathe

is through eating it.

Not all at once, of course.

It's steady, humble work.

So I brandish

my favorite spoon

and carve,

bite by bite until I'm full

then chew some more

so that my organs

feel like they'll explode.

I used to think the clay

served a greater purpose

like some sort of challenge

to make me a stronger woman.

But I feel it every morning.

No matter how

much I’ve already eaten,

another lump sprouts

over my ribcage,

melting into my skin

so that neither can be

dissected apart.

If I’m honest,

there are almost certainly

seeds of clay

buried deeply

beneath the surface,

soaking in the marrow

of my bones

so that even if,

miraculously,

I shed these

stubborn adornments,

I will never be free

from its control.

I’ve learned to consult

the clay along every journey.

Can we breathe

enough to speak?

Will we be too heavy

by the end of the evening?

How many spoonfuls

are required

for just an hour

of peace?

If I’m honest,

I’ve grown exhausted

from the feasting,

but I know that without it,

the clay will consume me

completely.

So I have become loyal

to this endless cycle

of steady, foolish work.

Yet, in my dreams,

I have mastered pottery

and molded every

granule of clay

into spoons that I gave

others so they could eat

and discover their own way

of breathing.