What you leave behind:
Clay grief, a gnashing of tools.
I use your fettling knife to cut two crude lumps,
slice fingers into the slabs,
sculpt the sculptor’s hands.
I give you our mother’s ridged nails,
hint at eternity
with lucent half-moons,
crimp your knuckles with the needle.
Then there are veins, those rumors of blood.
Lifesize hands. I make them bigger than they were,
with a longer reach.
In the morning I wake to find them upside down
in supplication,
noticing only now
the dead smoothness of the palms.
I’ve forgotten to give you lifelines,
sent you off without a map.
What you leave behind:
Clay. Tools.
The sculptor,
only you can help me shape this grief.
Use your knife to cut me from the lump,
your ribbon tool to hollow me out.
And your needle?
Use this
to pierce my numbness.
Then,
lay down your tools.
Don’t stop there. Don’t spare me.
Get in here with your bare hands.
IN HER OWN VOICE
Poetry lives not only on the page,
but also in breath, silence,
and sound.
▶︎ Listen to Julie read