Stabling Chaotic Mounds- By: Madelyn Miller

 

Stabling chaotic mounds:

Steady peddle press with a splatter smock.

Red clay and cupped palms.

Freshly poured bucket, you dip your hands and throw.

Grandfather keep me on kilter, I am ontop your wheel.

That room just off the side of your house.

A dwelling space. I know you still reside.

Cool blocks of under-earth stacked un affected  by knuckles.

Musty, loud nostalgia, shadows of your creations.

I think you planned the grit of my father.

Maybe once while you were throwing clay.

The roughness of your fingertips.

Did you plan him as you would a bowl?

How trusting of you;

Shutting your eyes while stabling chaotic mounds.

Clay is not easily forced, but you sooth its harsh frame.

No mind to the splashes on your shoes.

Your brow is furrowed. You never lash out in frustation.

So precise, you sit still. Cloudy water drips from your elbows.

Did you plan the mellow grooves of me?

Because at times I worry I will need your hands to remind me.

That devistating silence just after you break pottery.

Making my limbs feel like putty.

Reminding me my father is made from your clay.

Steady press with splatter smock.

Grandfather keep me on kilter, I am ontop your wheel.