Can I take a chisel to my chest carve it with a heart that flutters soft? Can I taste the iron whispering in my blood and work it to bolts, trust it to hold together the errant spilling-of-me? Can I weave my hair into nets, my lungs into baskets, my flesh into something that is new and strong and useful? What good are these hands at shaping when they cannot rework my own sloping clay?– and for once they come up empty, dripping mud from the riverbed.




















