A pitcher…

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A pitcher made from local soils, stacked and fired to hold what’s worth, the harvest, the vital belongings passed on. The gaping aperture of a crack —looking out from within, looking in from without renders the vessel an empty promise.

Contractually still storage, the vessel holds no longer. Its bottom plummeted, and now, without ground beneath feet, it hugs our savings to death, flummoxed by a catastrophic contract written by and for our bodies.