Freefall Jan.14, 2001 by Jane Enkin
"Your remembrances are
like ashes; your bodies are like bodies of clay" {Job 13:12}
1.
A clay vessel filled with ashes
Ashes soft, slippery between your fingers
Form the clay into a rounded base and a wide, open-mouthed top
Sprinkle in, a handful at a time, the fragrant ashes of resinous wood
Softest, palest gray dusting
the terra cotta mouth
A handful of ashes smeared
on my lips
Licking the memories
Tasting every fragrant fragment
Gulping ashes, ashes flowing
in my blood, gray flecks
floating among the bright blood cells,
ashes informing every cell
and every nerve message of
my body
A soft coating of ashes over every nerve, over my spine
Cushioning , dulling sharp sensations, comforting and soothing
Ash memory smeared on my hands, before I come to massage
your shoulders.
Softer, slippery, now my hands glide over your skin.
Now memory makes a smoother, simpler connection between us,
without rough edges to catch on one another.
Now I can go deeper, and do more work.
Memory rubbed on my thighs, memory graying my hair
I feel stronger from this adornment
Thicker, sturdier, coarser strands of terra cotta
Great thick coils to twist and braid together,
To harden in the fire
Morning. The fire is out, the ashes
Are still warm. Maybe one
of the coals is red enough to catch
Slippery ash between thumb and forefinger
Slippery clay, shaping to my touch
Form the clay and fill it with ashes
2. Your remembrances are like ashes; your bodies are like
bodies of clay
My remembrances fly all over the place
My body is earth heavy, damp, still
3. Your remembrances are like ashes; your bodies are like
bodies of clay
Raku
Make a bowl of clay, paint on a splash of glaze, sprinkle on a bit of copper
powder. Layer straw and twigs in a barrel, light them on fire.
Bury the dry, fragile bowl in the straw, and smother the fire.
With time, ash will bond to clay,
ash will strengthen and beautify, but in strange ways.
The bowl is black, a dense, matte black spoken by fire, black of storm cloud,
black of winter near-morning, black of our room when street lights seep in
through the blinds and I can see your form, night-softened. The glaze
is
palest pearl gray, crackled with deep black . It still looks molten,
spoken by fire, poured volcano style, always flowing, always suggesting change.
And the copper dust has exploded, green, blue, thin layer of iridescence.
Opened by fire, spoken into beauty by fire.
Fingerprints in soft clay are now the mark of an earlier time,
preserved by fire, written by fire on a strong, hard bowl
Ash bonded with clay
Memory strengthening body
Beauty spoken by fire
4. … your bodies are like bodies of clay
Our bodies stick together when we touch;
little bits of me cling to you and yours
to me when we pull away to go about
the rest of our day’s business.
Smears of you are on the windowsill,
the bookshelf, smears of me on
your computer keyboard, your tallis.
You press a rose petal to my chest
and leave a delicate pattern of veins,
and a fragrance, too, at least for a while.
Lie with me in the forest
and you will be forever adorned,
an illuminated manuscript with
tracery of ferns, mosses,
mushrooms, berries and tangled hair.