Fellatio
I’m sculpting a tiny death
in my potter’s wheel
your skin ripples in motion
in time with the hum
Water is used to soften
the unformed clay
my lips knead and
mould a living wave
An exercise in timing
to link hand with heat
once in the kiln
every flaw will show
A suicide art moving
with a cry into me
and I’m left with tears
of a crouching child.
I wonder why I worked
so hard just to empty you
to have what I shaped
slip down from my hands
—Priscila Uppal
____
from How to Draw Blood From a Stone (Exile Editions, 1998).