Of the maker

who gave her the vase

just because she liked it, he said…

Of he who made the vase 

and then gave it  

to the passerby, to bring home…

No, no matter if it was empty.

She pressed it on her chest

her arms wrapped around it.

Its concavity against her ribcage

started echoing her pulse, heartbeat

resonating chamber to chamber.

Still fresh, the maker said

she’d need to be careful until 

it would perfectly dry.

Then, he said

it would hold water.

Still fresh…

She brushed it with fingertips

amazed at the softness

of the outer layer of clay.

Tender, thin, yet flexible

like skin stretched over tendons

muscles and bones.

She could feel, yes, tendons 

muscles and bones of the vase

ribs, breathing like hers did.

She walked cautiously

as she embraced the vase that

tomorrow she’d fill with milk.

Or else juice, water, wine

saps, lymph

all pure, all nutritious.

She walked cautiously and yet

with a lilt, yet lightly

as if dancing.

Of the maker 

who gave her the vase

for nothing at all…

She only knew he wished to vanish

close shop

be forgotten.

Make a last masterpiece

sell it pronto, sign a pact

with the devil and go.

Be careful, he had said

and she would, though the vase

sure as rock, wouldn’t break.

You see, it breathed already

under 

her fingertips.