The Day She Knows Who She Is
by Glenna Cook
I’m a clay pot,
she whispers,
then twirls in a crazy dance,
stumbles,
laughs.
I’m not afraid of falling.
I’m a clay pot!
she shouts.
Her voice wings freely
above the heads of those
who tried to suppress it.
I’m a clay pot,
she muses,
and feels proud ambitions,
burdensome expectations, melt,
flow like rivers down a mountainside,
rest as pure lakes in a valley.
She kneels to see her face reflected,
plain as earth, wise as sky.
I’m a clay pot,
formed from eons of decay,
stones coughed from earth’s bowels
and ground down—stardust.
Drawn from necessity’s kiln,
I can hold water, wine,
or tears.
My task is simply
to be.
Gyroscope Review 2! 6