The Potter

I pick up ashes

and mix them

with the tears

and sweat

and blood

that pours

from the cracks of me

the parts that knows

the pain

of the burns

and the breaking.

I knead them together

until the clay of it

coats

my hands

I spin

the gray

mess

and twist it

with gentle pressure

until it is fluted

and beautiful

I slip her in

to a puddle

of the clay

thinned

with streams of longing

and then

the irony

forged in the fire

that once destroyed

it emerges

strong

and beautiful