I’m formed from clay

turned on the potter’s wheel.

Spinning made me

and I spin still.

Smoothed thumb and finger

and wet earth.

From honest mud,

that was my birth.

The gods made me to carry the can.

Poor womankind, to get the blame from man.

They put in my possession all the gifts

without my knowing

when the pot was raw,

that they were throwing.

And as to womanhood I was growing

they gathered round.

Flattering words are such a pretty sound!

And just to show them all, the lid I lift

to prove to them the value of my gift.

A cacophony of hate and pain leapt forth

and illness and depravity made howl

like all the evil demons down in hell.

I fought and struggled with the wooden lid.

With all my strength I pressed it back, I did.

Was blamed, as women are, for ever more

though I still harbour hope within my store.

Ask Eve, my sister, about apple trees,

and snakes and Adam, and fig leaves.

image by alicepopkorn