Alumina, or A Potter-Mother’s Wisdom Jocelyn Saunders Once I have washed this clay from my hands, would you raise a toast for this home I’ve fashioned? From kaolin and bone ash, I sculpted a dream’s dying light—drawing its febrile, glazed eye into my palms’ wellspring, a haven for this amorphous mass, this ouroboros liminality.
In the firing kiln, I was sintered: porcelain skin crazed and carbonized. I poured lacquer, gold-shocked, into crack and crevice, one-and-all. I marvel at this gamut-run, Kintsugi canvas of myself: imperfect, heavenly body.
Today, you are greenware: untested and malleable, but my hands will teach yours the secrets
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