His hands are still cased
in a thin and cracking film of dried clay.
He straddles behind me and plunges his hands
into the warm bubbles, pushing aside
dishes. Squeezes my own hands.
His breath hot and wet on my nape.
I imagine
the first plunge of the hands in cold, clean water
before the skin is stained by the supple clay,
dirty and wet, like the skirts of an Indian river.
His wet hands now on my hips,
and I feel like I’m spinning
because I know
that tomorrow he’ll snatch his dried piece of clay,
scrutinize it with his stone-flecked eyes and,
finding it imperfect,
smash it against the wall.
About Sophie Playle
Sophie Playle was born in the South East of England. She has a BA in English Literature with Creative Writing from The University of East Anglia. After working full time in the publishing industry for a year, she is now studying for an MA in Creative Writing at Royal Holloway University of London. Her fiction and poetry has appeared in Hint Fiction anthology, The Pygmy Giant, Ink Sweat and Tears, Skive, Metazen and various other magazines. In her spare time she runs Inkspill Magazine. www.sophieplayleblog.blogspot.com