Jammed in with the other chucklehead kids Elbow to elbow along the blonde wood bench, We listened to our smock-draped art teacher Prattle on unmocked, Dipping old hands in a big water bowl, wetting her thumbs, Digging mean-faced into a skull-ball Of gooey grey clay Until she, and we following puppylike, Held up hands dry as moondust Before faces streaked with smiles and tempera. She showed us how to mold a thumbed cup With hands too little to palm a football, How to perch the harp-shaped handle Like a sipping hummingbird To the completed cup's fine side, --Fingertip-push-and-smooth-it-out-- Until, looking up at her, I could see Honeyed nectar Loading the tumbler I was tasked to shape that day. As the worked clay squirted Between my worm-white fingers, I remembered The model of humanity in science class, A plastic invisible woman Limberly naked and displayed on the windowsill. Afternoon speared her crystalline, Lung and tongue, Illuminating the swift delta veldt Tucked unseen Between assertive thighs, Her veins ribbons from heel to hand. And I remembered, There, among the blue tubes And red pipes and ribs like playground slides, The plum heart lodged, Awkwardly unglued, but lit a sweet pink When pinned by daylight-- And I noticed, looking down at my hands, How my own clay lump was heartish, Lobed like her's, like her's Heavy and wet. I slimed and shaped my raw thumbed cup In a fever-fervor, glazing runnels of water Over twining layers of aorta and vena cava. I rushed to paint my heart alive and leave it To be made glossy by fire in a silver kiln Warm as a giant can of Sterno Until I carry it home another day To lay before you, waiting for you To fill my handmade heart With honey.