Clay crushed under calloused feet and cajoled by hopeful hands
is hurled into moulds and sun baked near cottonwood trees.
And so, parched bricks are made, one on top another, to build a home.
You squat inside, let terra red shadows swaddle your born-bright
who stares at you as if seeing God. She pitches arias that do not echo
and suckling at your breast, grows strong, your redemption
after all. Your present and your future.
Much later, you choose clay for her wedding gift.
Worked into bon bons to soothe hardship hunger pains,
increase the passion of her husband’s embrace,
suppress the nausea her pregnancy will bring,
fade freckled moles skewed on stretched skin.
Steeped in water, sipped during labour, clay, easing delivery
of the child who flies out and soul rockets to the stars.