A Few Hours in the Kiln

Take off your face. Slip out of your legs. He said. You don't need them. All those parts. Wasted. On the chronically incomplete.

Spying a finger she looks down to examine the structure of the break. Clean and oblong. A distortion of her fist. Frenzied vortex. Powerless time machine picking at the scabs. Same wounds. Fresh blood.

The stray dog in its top hat. The backdoor. leaning toward. Forgiveness. The staple in her tit. Hardening the skin. weakening the rest. Just the stone. and underneath it only us. Soft dolls stitched in haste. With faces made of scribbles. Nothing left to wear except the soil on our hands.

They leave the windows open and hope that they'll get used to the distance. Or that eventually they'll not notice the glass.

The things between. Heavy bones and tearing skin. Useless bandages for exposed levers. Pull. Keep pulling. Until nothing happens.

Not there all over again.

Forgotten. Dead leaves on the porch. Fighting with the wind. A quiet symphony. In dirty bedsheets. Tasting the math. Sweet syrup in ugly numbers. Yawning. Spitting up lies. And lovers. Told too often.

The number flinches. The fantasy erupts with expectation. Headless dolls all in a row. Violent with lugubrious regrets. No one can hear.

People.

Like clay.

Only easier.

To break.