She sits, clutches the lava
in her gnarled hands,
rolls the molten earth around and around
searing off rotten, gangrene clumps
of skin, tumbling to the ground.
She scoops seawater,
Splashing it into her quagmire
that inertia sends around and around;
Speckled passion fabricating
a pained pot to life.
Her potter's desire:
exposed bones charred working
a spinning salve around and around,
Throwing together sea, lava
and ladling skin back.