©Naomi Wakan
Our Clay
(based
on the lines by Kuan Tao-Sheng —
"I am in your clay, You are in my clay")
Am
I in your clay
and you in mine?
I've never thought
of these thirty years
that way; not even once.
I've thought of making
good meals and a comfy home;
flowers from the garden
for the table and a good poem
occasionally, and royalties
to pay the mortgage.
Am
I in your clay
and you in mine?
The question makes me uncomfy.
It's too exaggerated for
my English conditioning,
too demanding for something
I had taken for granted.
Still it won't go away,
so I start to count more carefully
the five to ten fruit and veg
I prepare each day,
read the odd book
you have recommended,
and self-consciously wash
the sheets more frequently.
I have sex a little more than I want,
and plump the pillows every morning.
Am
I in your clay
and you in mine?
Still the question remains
unanswered between us.
Besides the added zest
I am trying to add to each element
of our partnership
is now attached guilt and shame
and embarrassment at my
somewhat less than perfect love.
Am
I in your clay
and you in mine?
The quote has become a koan,
so one dawn I wake
in a fever of failure.
I note you are lying against me,
hand on my breast,
and I have a determined
arm around your shoulders.
Then, in an instant,
I know not how, all dissolves
and I ask myself in confusion,
Whose hand? Whose breast?
Whose arm? Whose shoulders?
And the tears run down over my clay
and your clay, your clay
and mine.
