POEM: CLAY

CLAY

The thing that made me sits under a roof of dry palms,
in a humidity that humbles,
surrounded by a scent of cinnamon coffee that comes to rest on its forearm,
like a daughter's hand.
Once satisfied, this creator, lost in translation but not truth,
passes on the tiny ball of clay
to the many moms and dads of Santa Tecla.
Tina and Me, our 2 foot tall frames led by the hand,
through the deafening music and mangos,
would sometimes see the blank faces of soldiers riding past.
But we were taught only to play.
Innocence in times of fire,
like eucalyptus masking the scent of burning palms,
allows the clay to expand without cracking,
allows it to find a brother in the red earth across the ocean.
The hands of those that love us,
all contribute their contrasting and complex visions,
so now the clay can flow like melted chocolate,
around the tall and jagged obstacles,
or be a warm solid stone,
for life's soldiers to rest their heads,
and reclaim their innocence.