the way it did in the master’s studio all those years ago.
I am important, it says, and I deserve a space all my own.
Red, not usually my color.
But this is candy-apple red, and I want to bite the fat part.
It’s an uneven red, prickly with flecks of black
in the glaze that cascaded down the sides
in the pours before the fire.
The adobe clay along the bottom — the lie! — peers out from along the edges of the folds of molten glass
where smooth meets rough.
I don’t have a special spot for it.
My red pot will just have to speak for itself.