By CJ Muchhala

It is slow work.  The potter’s
Thick brown fingers work the clay
Find the shape hidden in the lump
Set it in the kiln and wait.

	The bowl is water, is earth.
	Black fire gleams from its belly
	When Georgia turns it 
	In the light.  It will do.

A woman plucks the bird
Readies it for water, for smoke.
When she moves from stove to table
The feathers on the dirt floor stir.

	There is only one peacock feather.
	The goose feathers are too pure.  Georgia’s
	Thin brown hands hover,
	Alight on a trio of turkey feathers
	Nondescript, plain as the sand in moonlight.

It is slow work coaxing this pot, these feathers
From her oils.  She is forty-eight, and patient.

The pot emerges
Smooth as a stone for grinding corn.
Unlike her flagrant flowers, the turkey feathers
Rise in dark simplicity,
A totem for the clan of unnamed women.