Story of an Empty Clay Pot (Poem)

When I was placed in the womb by a force,

I saw my mother’s face like an alien being,

And I felt like an empty container.

I was a clay pot in an empty and quiet woods at a river bank,

Imagining its own empty spaces.

Dreaming of its own contents.

Sleeping for a fullness.

A clay pot with a small opening, and a timid voice,

I was safe enough in the woods to speak aloud in words

A simple voice of my deepest self sacrifice.

A spine tingling need to know.

Who am I? What am I?

This dreamless blanket?

This electricity?

This eclipse?

This sensation unbidden from any image?

As I slipped into the feeling once more, I called upon my silent helpers:

...Remove this large black stone from the river-flow.

Unplugged, I suddenly awake in my mothers hands, confused.

What words did I utter before I remembered her face:

A wailing cry? An animal sound?