Kerry Sherin

Self-portrait

Maybe because I am afraid
of knives
and fists
I have hardened into a bottle
of rust-red clay,
and I want you to drink
from me.
My hips are cool and vaguely
rough, but the shape
is what your hands
will remember
after I die.
How the waist of me
flows upward from a bell
your fingers rest on lightly,
restless.

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