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Mud


She builds a man from the mud    As far as the horizon
in all directions there is only clay    cracked as if a note
deep under the earth had sounded leaving large plates
of mud separated by clefts a deeper red

She has taken her hands and dug deep
where it is still wet and fluid    She shapes the man
curls his muscles    the softest mud on his torso
the hardest applied to his feet and hands

She is tired    covered in mud herself    all red
she looks just like him    She finishes his head
with hard clay    stops    steps back to rest    gazes
at his features    admires his beauty    Sighs

Quickly she takes her thumbs and scoops the mud
away from his eyes    They open wide    the whites
bright against the wet oxblood of his face
He stares at her    focused and alert
His eyes cut fear into her heart


Alice Teeter

Atlanta Review

Spring / Summer 2013


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