Celebration of Earthenware

I am no lipless Lenox diplomat.
My mouth has thick red curbs that stop

the flow of words, inhale ideas, keep secrets,
press them into smaller lies and spit them out.

These lips, the indelicate curve of hip, heavy handle
of my womanhood, form an empty vessel for your pain.

Feel the hand-smoothed heft of bone, tempered
by the elemental drench of water, fire –

Nestle me between your palms, run your winter fingers
Along each blessed edge, face close enough for steam on glasses.

Remember that the light does not move through me,
I absorb, transmute, swirl it out in kiln-fired countrysides

of color. I am utterly opaque. I hold a healthy portion,
sustenance. To live, you must gulp instead of sip.

-- (c) J.E.S. 1995. All rights reserved, in all media, both domestically and internationally.