perfect spheres
the damp smell of the clay
is what i remember most of that 11th summer
it made my mouth water
the wet-dirt vapor all around me as i kneaded it and kneaded
it felt like i was drowning when it stuck to my fingers and bound me up
gray streaks drying painful and tight up my forearms
endlessly i shaped the earth- rounding in my hands
perfect spheres
putting them in the plastic-lined bucket
not thinking about my fingers in bondage
and when my teacher would walk by
i’d lift the plastic cover
(see, we cover them so they don’t dry out)
and show her- see?
see how good i am?
please tell me, are they good?
and the thick scent would curl up to me again
i remember the clay
and the lice
i knew about them and i didnt
all at once in the way children do
i knew about them because of that night in the kitchen
i was sweeping
there were still dishes to do, and counters, and mopping
and that wasn’t even counting the clay that needed me the next day
the bug was caught under my nail
it flailed six arms, violent, tiny and grey
the force of its panic frightened me
the weight of its life on my finger
i flicked it away
and kept sweeping
i knew about the lice and i didn’t
i didn’t know
because
even then
no matter how perfect the sphere
no one would comb them out
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this is my first poem i’ve ever posted on reddit- I’m open to any and all criticism or feedback! thanks for reading my silly little poem :)
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