White Clay

In high school
she moulded a man
and a woman.
When the work
got her palms
tight and dry
she was learning
something about touch.

The anatomy was all
wrong said her teacher,
but pinching muscles
and curves out of
nothing felt good.

The man lay along
the woman’s back.
The girl stroked the slip
from faceless starts
to uncertain ends
and found a word
that softened her inside.

Another girl
called it fucking.
She tested this word
against the raw silk
limbs she had shaped.
There was no congress
between form and sound.

Boys looked at her now.
(Had they looked before?
She couldn’t say.)
They were curious
to know if her fingers
would be patient with them
like white clay.

Art classes taught her
the true nature of bodies.
Although they started out
cold and ended hot,
they could not be counted on
to do what her hands wanted.