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THE SCULPTRESSLast night she dreamed her eyes could melt the earth.She sets clay on the mat, begins her work. Beneath her fingers, clay births a slow body. She dreams she makes the seasons, palms winter into clay, takes into earth dust of the moon, ashes fallen from the mantle. The sculptress kneads the clay, loosens a voice: I am part birch, part bone, part sunlight on the window pane. The new body feels the forest sliding shadows down its spine. With each dance of fingertips over new limbs, the body feels the language of miracle seeping in. When night falls, galaxies glow in the blood. Oceans lap cliff seams, mountains. As earth slips into breathing, as waves become birth rhythm, the sculptress opens her hands, her own prints seep into clay. The sculptress hears: I am part birch, part bone, part sunlight peeling off the roof. She sees the body glow watches the tall figure, sure footprints moving through the door. She watches redwood shadows slide down the spine, a body returning to earth. Copyright 2000 Julia Alter |