At the end of pottery class
I thanked the teacher
and said my work usually lives
in two dimensions
but it felt good
to let it rise.
She asked,
Are you an artist?
I said no
too quickly.
The word carried too many meanings
to hold.
No–
because I am more than one thing
and I don’t want to live
inside a single name.
No–
because some quieter voice
still believes art belongs
to other people.
That I may create things,
but not art.
That there is a threshold
I haven’t earned.
No–
because I don’t sell what I make.
Because profit has been taught to mean proof.
Because somewhere I learned
that joy without currency
doesn’t qualify.
All of that
collapsed into one syllable.
No.
She looked disappointed.
I felt the urge to explain–
to excavate the truth,
to soften it with context.
But I didn’t.
I still don’t know
when to speak
and when to let silence
do its work.
Because the world keeps forming
whether I name it or not.
The wheel turns.
The clay shifts.
The nothing becomes shape.
