I know not how to make a bowlof clay, much lessa woman made of flesh.Makeup I learned by watching, trialand error. I put on, my facea process, pounce, brush, sweep,line and look, how powderedI may move, brown and black.And black bow deeply, serving nowmy only audience whose excellencegives blackness backfor which I weep and willbow deeper still and cry. I’m made,feel praiseworthy, fearfully.How stuffed with joy I’ve been,how overfull. Dusted.The children say I’m dead.They laugh, not killing themselves.I laugh. Don’t say you’re killing me.Destroyers suffer. Mockerykills, fills pockets. Emptiesmouths. Dumb. Don’t eat the dust.Caking my sponges daily, dallied,how long have I beenhere? Who can believe thisis my job? This is the job,I recognize when surfacing.Doubt, destroyed. What workis good? Thoroughwinter’s blasting melts,unburying the deck, then freezesto make steps treacherous.One sunny day erases all evidence.I make my way to church.To face what grace, what Godmight see, what breathes, shapes,sparks beyond the musty theatre.(I smashed a bowl I loved.I raised a rock above my headand brought it down untilthe piece I’d loved was shards,until I broke the rock I’dweaponized. I wandered laterthrough the makeup aisle, thenout to face my loss. There wasa child, twirling blithely throughthe parking lot. She spunso close, her serene smile rightunder my nose, her face my broken-hearted conviction. I still want tomake something of                                                            ] myself [