She didn’t like to talk about such things as politics
or poverty. Wouldn’t dirty her hands in any way.
She already knew the answers. Better off kept buried
than resurface tortured and dying. Safer that way.
Hide the spade. Change and all the dirt flying about.
Privy to the other side of things:
the reasonable, the calm and the beautiful,
(we don’t riot here, do we?)
beholden for all she was worth,
besides why do you need to get so hot about it?
Change the subject, she’d say.
Take a book, a painting, pottery,
anything at all, but she couldn’t get away.
Not really. Her dislike was written in every book,
in every picture if she dared to look,
even her fingers in the wet slab of clay
kneading away brought it way too close.