clay

you’ll rip something you’re building
into shreds. your body will almost 
automatically take a breath - in - out 
to calm you down, it’s trying to keep you
alive. but this stupid body keeps trying
to inhale dust, you cough, cough again, 
as it subides the word silicosis will waft
into your scales. you’ll shiver for a second, 
pour water on the pieces, throw them 
where they can’t hurt your fragile body. 
pick up the dust with water and a mop.

the bits of stone embedded in clay, the
grit and grog will shift into your palms, and 
you’ll see a little drip of blue mix from your
insides into the mud and fade away,
no one will ever know it was there but 
you and the blob-to-be beneath your 
fingertips. you know the end, you know 
that it’ll collapse, but you keep pushing 
higher until the fins can’t support their
own weight anymore. and when you 
realize where exactly the cuts in 
your palm are, you get up and leave 
the puddle, run skin under water, 
where it’ll wash the minerals away. 

your skin will prune and you clean it 
all, body trying to soak up everything 
you can carry. and molding the clumps
of clay you destroyed will take the life
out of your arms, with nothing to show 
for it all. you’ll sit in your car listening to
the rain holding back your tears, hoping 
to god that you don’t have clay in your lungs.
but the fishbowl is waiting for you, so you’ll 
pull water into your chest to wash the silica 
out. hoping you can return your fish body
to the watery atmosphere you were 
born to be in