best of issue

Claymouth

like a piece of clay–crushed, flattened, torn apart, glopped together.

i lose the same shape. a bowl, a cup, always holding or empty otherwise,

collapses into itself, air pockets and all. i dig for pieces of me

under dirty nails, cracks in the floor, anywhere of dust and debris.

half-formed, half-forgotten, colors cling in bits of orange, blue, yellow

kneaded between thumbs until they forget themselves into beige, brown.

soil! i cry and the worms laugh and breathe deep and hard.

my fist clenches into paste. i grab pieces of myself

to throw and fly, then fall. imagine: how loud would i shatter.

just a thud and a splat. the air thickens to more soil for the worms.

warm, necessary, cruel. what else is new.

i bite down and my teeth melt against the hand that feeds, calls me good

when i am soft enough to reshape. i ask the air-soil:

when will i find my fire. when will i stop gluing myself

to what touches me. when will i hold. i am told to wait.

i am told softness is holy. this is love, this unfinishedness,

this trembling before hardening. it is you, the soil speaks into my mouth.

tears run and i am slick again. blood boils and i am soft. pressed,

i give again. it feels like purpose. maybe i was meant to keep taking

shape. i think i’m drying but i don’t know. i just keep spinning.

Seungmin Oh, ME, Kents Hill School