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| my body, in the hands of an artist
yields like clay to the pressure of his touch.
I am formed by his skill
into the vessel for his passion
and thirstily I drink
his water.
as my body, like clay,
holds the shape I've been given
space opens, deep and wide
to receive him.
and I watch from a distance
as he presses inside and sets me
on fire.
and my body, wet and hot
in the contours of his hands
defies gravity and rises
to the sound of his voice
dancing to his words
stormy, tempestuous
gasping for air.
then my body, left behind
baking in the sun will grow hard
and beautiful
glazed in his furnace
or hard
and cracked
if the form was flawed
ready to be born again.
As the artist who creates me
desires.
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