An Israeli woman kneaded her military hands
The 10-year-olds we counseled slipped
train menorahs. Jew camp, the job felt plush.
fire their dove pitchers by night and lead projects
My ass pocket creased a letter
accurately. He could spin
He could pick me up with one hand
how to coil pots with snakes of clay.
like the script curl of a "g" or a "q",
for clay, kosher, and singing
Beyond the studio kids canoed
When they were done they grasped
for dairy wasn't at dinnertime
to check on the kilns. I would slide
and check the orange glow of several
of stoneware. Some splatter-glazed spice
Enter the Iranian Dane
as heavily as his love of Kafka,
melting into every cranny like butter
you never really know what will have cracked.
droplets of glass from those shelves.
as the Iranian Dane's skin. Who, I discovered,
didn't wear underwear. Every lanky limb
holding jeans in the corner of some room,
and metamorphosis, until he licked
orange, but also sweet like the applesauce
Five hundred Jewish kids stood up
As they put their hands above their heads
And wouldn't you know it, I was the only singer
The kids asked me to do the Pharaoh
or webbed toes.