Current Issue               Submissions               Round Table






You sculpt my arms and hands,
scoop out my waist
as if it were holy.

Fingers smooth the thousand-year slope
of my nose,
my mercurial mouth.

Here, I'll hold my leg out.
My calf fits your hand like a pomegranate.
Quick! while the clay is wet
and the sun is hot and orange
in the west.

      — Teresa White