A Pot’s Biography by Mallory

I spun so hard
coming to birth
that I do not recall
my first moments.

Cold, perhaps,
and wet, perhaps,
with fingers fondling
me up and down
… I think.
I can’t know anything
until the spinning stopped.

Hot, I felt, hot,
extremely hot,
for what seemed hours –
choking the breath
in my slender neck.

I don’t know,
but some kind of
spurs or pie crimp
rouletted me up and down,
tickling and tingling,
before the heat.
What heaven.

Then boredom.

Weeks on a shelf
if pots could sneeze,
god, was there dust.

A secret to tell:
I don’t know what
kind of pot I am.
Is this silly?

A bit bigger than a man’s hand
and deep;
jokes at my expense,
whatever a tit is,
touching me
stroking me
kissing me
and laughing.

Wine and more wine
and sometime in the revels
yellow wine
smelling sour of old onions.

I broke –
you knew that —
because you can see me —
all the pieces of my soul,
small pieces missing forever,
powdered by a workman’s pick
exploding my cheek forever away.

In lost towns tomb stones –
there’s one across there –
talk to viewers
“visitor, look on Calluna’s grave
and wish her well.”

I have no stone sentiments
to speak for me,
there is so much dust,
if only pots could sneeze.

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