By Marilyn Cavicchia

I made clay people and released them.
They tumble down the front hall,
naked, fast as flat feet can paddle.
I pressed in gumdrops for eyes,
rubbed the wet velvet of their shoulders,
kissed their taut bellies, and on each,
the protuberant dimple that bears
the mark of my creation most of all,
where I snipped them from the vine of clay
like a melon, an insouciant melon that
will leave me someday, the one day
I forget to close the front door.
They will scrabble and roll
down the stairs, out into the cold,
blend seamlessly into the world
as if they aren't clay at all,
as if this was to be expected
and I shouldn't be shocked by their absence,
which was the purpose of my making them
in the first place,
before love made me forget that part.