Originally published in "BONEMILK volume 1" by Gutslut Press, March 2022, p.59
Pea Flower Tomioka
Clay Pots
She tricks her grief into me.
Processes carved ancient to the formality of trial
By ashen bases
Trimmed footpaths meticulous for days of baking in sunlit rooms
Or how the tears porous pinch the rim repack
Back again for more.
Patted balls soft to slap centered in the chaos
A wetting down to bedding of these memories
Control in her hands against the violence of his cock
And how I raise up into her fingers to show a penis she can trust
How she must force me down again
How I want to be pushed
Pliant supplication to balance breast
She will open me.
Spread fingers
Slick with promise
I am the breath of her control.
I am the vulva caressed.
I am birth canal to the beauty where commonality is sacred.
I am functional art, raised up walls to hold her steady
I belly out as she fills me with her sadness.
Her milk slip touch, my bisque fire bones-
I am vessel, she is emptied.
And she cries compressed edges lest razor rim lips bite her back
We brew this magic together.
We are, in the end, corners in balance to spin sacred spirals.
I am earth, she brings the water.
She survives the storms and I cremate the men she feeds me
Cone six star burn to lay waste and ash aside
I vitrify this spoilation of spirit.
Furnace blasting secrets for her to
Pour love out like
Old pennies,
or pink salt
or feather quills and friendship candy dishes
holding this universe
All of the common things the unmolested collect.
We are both reborn this way, we shaper and shaped.
We artist and clay.
We survivors of violence, made stronger by ritual
Healing to hearth and heart
An intersection where we both find normalcy.
I, in function, and her, in functionality.
Tomioka, Pea Flower. "Clay Pots" BONEMILK Volume 1, Gutslut Press, March 2022.
https://gutslutpress.com/product/pre-order-the-b-o-n-e-m-i-l-k-collective-volume-i-print/
