The Soul in the Bowl

Caroline Finkelstein

In the clay, in the grey
cool slip of the bed
of the creek, in a marriage
of water and matter,
it was formless-

in the night of it,
in the cornflowered
dawn of its being
asleep, it was whole
and alone-

like shadow, like ivy
climbing up slowly
in dreams, it flourished,
a star in the dark-

but the potter's empty hands
wrung with discontent
and the hard burning kiln
wanted
something to anneal-

when I look into my child's
face, I see
fine lines like writing
and like fracture.