Mould Clay

I am a packet of clay, moulded into position, dried to perfection, yet expected to be weathered. Hands crack and twist my limbs into shapes foreign to me; my smooth skin splits with joints. Where lies my beauty? I am lost in the ever-changing narrative. Wrung out in the sun, set in the gentle breeze by the same hands that broke me—soon I shall return to the wheel, to wither once more.

But—

I babble the beginnings of this city, my mother’s story.

Long ago, her tongue wound down from thoughts pure and clear, joined with her love—my father. Their loins churned mud into being and made it precious. I was born.

Her tongue was joy. Her voice flowed in turns and tangles; her song was the loveliest in the region. I was a mischievous boy. I grew up and stretched her tongue straight upon the rack. I fastened it tight until it turned black. I poured sand. Concrete. I stood over her as it hardened. My friends came—standing tall beside me—and together we spat and shat.

Thirty years have passed. I am still not potty-trained. I drink, suckling from her, ninety-seven per cent of the time. She does not complain.