catapult magazine

My Potter

by Robert Minto

I.
I remember her hands
shaping the curves
of clay, like God shaped Eve,
like she smooths her own dress at her hips-
one gesture, a sweep, a performance,
a memory of movement:
a pot.

II.
I remember her eyes
absently seeing the colors
of un-baked glazes,
her own, mixed and carefully painted
for the fire to illuminate.
But she couldn’t find a color brighter
than those eyes.

III.
I remember her feet,
stretched to lift her
face to the crack in the kiln.-
Still firing.-
But she stayed on her toes
To watch the orange glow.

IV.
I remember her heart,
in her hands,
and her eyes,
as her feet carried her to me.
“Here, I made this for you,”
she said.