My clay things are childish, lumpy,
heavy-glazed. Jizus in ting chin
or whatever that brown glaze is,
with unglazed heads
that don’t quite fit. A vase
dripping with blue globs.
I’m making crêche figures—
faceless fingerprinty Mary
and Joseph, a baby
the size of a kidney bean
who fits inside a tiny pod.
Animals from children’s dreams.
My favorite so far is a blue fish
with a red mouth and runny
eyes. It waits with baited
yellow tongue on my desk to remind
me that everything is process,
that perfection is overrated,