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for thirty-odd years she had flung mirages in the thoughtful pale light, a desert potter while ocean repeated itself and the rivers dreamed, she formed from the badlands an idea of clarity bare feet licked clean at the wheel's rim, forever crossing and re-crossing the ribcage of God till sentiment betrayed her and rust bloodied the clay, marking her soul with its old original sin – for one solitary tear slipped into a woman's work can make the fire-glazed basin gleam or shatter © 2007 by Beth Stevens |