Concussion

you visit Tuesday after the accident,
arms full of pink stargazers
and crossword puzzles

asking about my slip tentatively,
a tight-lipped smile
as you silently recount the story
I have told other friends

I speak deliberately,
whilst there is no trace of fracture in my voice,
no kiss of bruising on my temple,
I haven’t yet returned home
to myself

wet clay, I say,
and then the fall,
though I only felt the
landing

clay, you repeat slowly,
and I wonder if you’re remembering
pottery classes at night school
where we learnt how
clay grips on to the life
worked into it

you can wedge and throw it,
yet somehow clay will recall
how soft your touch was
in the beginning,
its molecules still feeling
where your gentle hands faulted,
before the
fire.