washing, washing,
washing.
spots that never would
come out.
"I'm done," Heinrich said,
and the way he said
it drew the disbelief
in his brother's eyes
and the shock drove
his sister's thoughts away.
But there was no use arguing,
anymore.
(as if they
ever had.)
leaving them was
leaving himself,
but he was done.
done with it.
Done with himself.
So he left.
Even his lovely
lovely wife couldn't
understand,
with her soft heart
and round promise
of a belly,
why he would be
someone new.
Heinrich himself didn't
understand
didn't know.
But what he knew
was that he couldn't.
the spots grew bigger.
He was a dying man.
First, it was his arm,
then it was his face.
He had lost the shape
of his soul.
So he looked at himself
and he left him behind.
because he knew
the only way
to truly be Heinrich
was to embrace
the exploding love
that splattered him in clay.
the only way to truly live
was to be recast
to let the potter
mold him 'round
the perfect armature
and polish his soul
'til his face was found.
*inspired by the collection of sculptures by Hanneke Beaumont on temporary display at Frederik Meijer Gardens, Grand Rapids.
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