A Lump of Clay

Poetry by | February 14, 2010

The dirt under his nails—gray
mud scraped to shape
my body. My body
is a lump of clay
on the potter’s wheel,
slick palms tracing the curves,
dripping clay
covers the potter’s hand going down
inside the jar. What smooth rings
his fingers create, moans
of solemn earth, shaped
to become my body. My body
enters the kiln, gasps from the heat
of the fire within, burning
the skin of his fingers off my body
until I’m done—
a hollow
of burnt clay.

Maureen Ronquillo is a senior creative writing student at UP Mindanao.

It must have felt like

Poetry by | July 12, 2009

a crystal dolphin
attached to a string
of chimes hanging
over the little pond
when the water ceases
to flow to the rhythm
of springs,
when the bells toll
and let go of their hold,
when the notes slip
on smooth pebbles,
when the music
hangs limp
on the string
and nothing, no
nothing stays

but the whistling
of the wind.

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