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Sculptures
They talk, stopping and starting,
maintaining themselves well in the cold
room, though at times they show
their temper by chipping
at their wrists or underarms.
Some fold over like clothes,
others' drier edges are crispety
and pale in the show lights.
They exist to fill up my spaces,
I think, and all day long
I present them as if they were
arguing about my own reality,
how they might organize
the best way for me
to loosely live and die.
I see my parents and children
in them and they swivel
and dance like real men
and women, useful to me
always as they move the air
around and slow down
any coming agitation.
In spite of their shields and robes,
made of clay and modeled after gods
and goddesses, they are edgy,
even in their own society.
All night long they remain
in my fingers, which must continually
turn them over and over
and concentrate on shaping them.
I make them hold hands, or turn
toward shouts of pain,
or settle into differences.
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