Slip by Abba Connally

A round, soft ball of wet, pale terracotta

Craving change, I walk into the studio,

Throw it down. Sitting, hands on the edge

of the wheel. Dig my middle and index fingers

Into the mouth that I have formed, damp and cold.

Run my fingers along the walls until

I can turn the inside outwards and change the

Jumbled mess I walked into the studio with

Into something hard and sensual, that I

Can wrap my fingers around the girth of

I pull my hands out, stopping the wheel.

The world around me is spinning as I lean

Against the wall of the bathroom.

My hands are covered in red clay, still wet

I won’t let it dry. I stand up and wash

The bile smell down the sink.