As a child I made things
out of clay—a pig who
could not be eaten, a mule
who refused to carry
anything other than a pig
who could not be eaten.
They were companion
pieces. They kept each
other company, and me.
We kept each other’s
secrets: what flesh can
do with clay, what clay
can do that flesh can’t.
I was a small child who made
small decisions. I made big
people angry. I made them
confused. I
refuse, I refuse.
Copyright © 2025 by Andrea Cohen. Originally published in Poem-a-Day on August 4, 2025, by the Academy of American Poets.
