Art and Craft

Her left hand is in mine as weAre awkward and in aSlow-motion dodge and weaveThrough what the kiln delivered-now set in loose rowson the sparse grass lawnunder the nine-thirty a.m. white oak trees behind the white house.-E runs her right index finger around the mouth of a big brown potWith four lug handles.She can reach the rim without bending over much.She is inspecting that one with the touch of her child elegant fingers—Tiny, long, cartilage fingers—While she looks over the clay piggy bank (with a 2” coin slotcut into his back) ten feet away.-It is an 8” clay jug sideways onClay feet,Listening through clay ears.E admires his swirl tail, which is made ofA coil of clay.-He has a rough, thick cork stuck in his mouth.-“Do I have to give you my number if I get a better one than you?” she says,Assessing her chances.“You get to choose what you do,” I say.-“I’d give it to you, Daddy.”“What one would you choose if you could have any one?”“The Pig or the one you tell me you like best.”-CL, the potter,Reaches out a 12” wide mouthJar full of folded slips of paper.The crowd has been closing in on himSince he started a move toward the center.He has already explained the rules of the lottery.-The jar with the numbers is rich brown,Somehow imperfect enough to have wonThis practical task when all it’s more perfect kinWill only ever sit on shelves,-or on the floor beneath side tables,or on top of a sideboard,or in a moving box still taped,or catching rainwater on the patio.– This makes me wonder about distinctions we make betweenArt and craft.-I don’t know, and feel as if I should, everything about the difference.-When I was twenty I worked for a while ripping boards to make beds.The wood was not good—it wouldKick, warp, and scream off the 12” open blade.-At night in my dreams my thumbs would get torn off,Pulled toward the blur of sleep and that blade, butAwake and pushing the 10’ boards,I could feel myself forgettingThe truth of the thing—Danger held within the high whine of the saw—So fast that it ceased to be a thing and became only an idea.-You can’t lose your thumbs to an idea, can you?Philosophy never really killed anyone.Poetry never really stuck a shiv in anyone’s back—not really.Profuse internal hemorrhagingNever really happened as a result of memorizing a sonnetLike “Read in my face a volume of Despairs/TheWailing Illiads of my prevailing woe.”-(That dude might be crying a river but he hasn’t lost so much as a digit!)-The warping made my predicament deceptive—My thumbs seemed to float on the wood(On the waves, adrift)As I pushed it on through.-Now I was just a minimum wage guy—a temporary worker.That shop near TN Hwy 64Had a couple of master carpenters—Guys creating intricate inlayedTables, bookcases.-Not one bit of their jobs involved ripping anything.They measured time by projects and in months.Their imaginations were inflamed withDesigns and plans and wood combinations.-I would go out back with them when they took breaks for tobacco.One man sat on a railroad tie, one leaned against a truck,I stood scratching at the gravel with my boot.-“Be careful, my man.” I didn’t hear clearly.“What’s that?”“BE(!), BE, be careful with ripping them boards. Don’t get lazy with them things.They are not PREtend.”Said the man leaning againstThe Pick-up.-He held up his hand—almost a full set…nine.Railroad tie man, relishing good dateCopenhagen before returning to his task(An order of church pews),Held up his hands too.Odd.They both had their thumbs though.-CL is patient as E feelsInto the pot for her slip of paper.As it turns out,Though my number is OK,She picks a better one–Holding it out to show meWith those fingers.She keeps looking to make sure it isWhat she thinksAnd perhaps to make sure it doesn’t changeOr disappear.-She picks the pig,And I pick a face jug—I forget which one now.Copyright 2012