By Anna Trevathan, Alumni Managing Editor
before i touched the clay, i was warned-
the clay will remember every movement
now there is clay underneath my fingernails,
and i wince- the clay did not give me permission
the clay was unopened, uncarved, unscathed,-
then my hands punctured, pulled, pressed-
and suddenly the clay is spinning, somehow still?
why did the clay stay still? the world was moving-
and the clay was still- frozen in time,
waiting for a touch it did not desire, did not invite
and i, the tortured artist, the unknown aggravator,
step on the pedal, i move the clay and it fights
the clay folds, bends, and pushes into my fingers
-i fight it, i hold it in place, moving so slowly
the clay begs me to let go, to stop trying to change it-
to perversing it’s body into what I want it to be
and i persist, digging my dirty fingers into the center
and spreading the clay up and around
and i will sculpt and wait for my clay to give in,
to take shape and surrender it’s being
my fingers will turn to clay, and they will crack
and collapse inwards, and i will finally be broken
