Gyroscope Review 15-3 - Page 35

The Day She Knows Who She Is by Glenna Cook I’m a clay pot,
 she whispers,
 then twirls in a crazy dance,
 stumbles,
 laughs.
 I’m not afraid of falling. I’m a clay pot!
 she shouts.
 Her voice wings freely
 above the heads of those
 who tried to suppress it. I’m a clay pot,
 she muses,
 and feels proud ambitions,
 burdensome expectations, melt,
 flow like rivers down a mountainside,
 rest as pure lakes in a valley. She kneels to see her face reflected,
 plain as earth, wise as sky. I’m a clay pot,
 formed from eons of decay,
 stones coughed from earth’s bowels
 and ground down—stardust.
 Drawn from necessity’s kiln,
 I can hold water, wine,
 or tears. My task is simply
 to be.
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