by Aja Leachman
Molded to harden, kilned
to crack. Momma cracking
eggs over burnt skillets,
scrambling for home cooked hearts
southern-fried, made with love,
hollow egg like cheap vases,
Have you ever seen it?
Full belly of Momma knows best
She pushes the chair back from a set table,
head hits splintered ceilings,
grown too big for ya sorroundins, huh?
She crouches toward sculpting fingers
to whisk her hips still wrapped with clay.
“Know me?” spins on the potter’s wheel.
“Know me?” drips down her cheek.
Black porcelain, have you ever seen it?
She thought there would be twirling
there was only spinning,
dizziness in reshaping, heat—
like eggs scrambled in hot oil
this ain’t homecooked baby
“a hard head makes a soft behind.”
Black Porcelain, have you ever seen it?