May 27, 2008


Iím sculpting a tiny death
in my potterís wheel
your skin ripples in motion
in time with the hum

Water is used to soften
the unformed clay
my lips knead and
mould a living wave

An exercise in timing
to link hand with heat
once in the kiln
every flaw will show

A suicide art moving
with a cry into me
and Iím left with tears
of a crouching child.

I wonder why I worked
so hard just to empty you
to have what I shaped
slip down from my hands

—Priscila Uppal
from How to Draw Blood From a Stone (Exile Editions, 1998).

Posted by dwaber at May 27, 2008 12:49 PM