Hillary Smith-Maddern

Hydria

          after Hieu Minh Nguyen

At least a small part of me is still the myth
I use to nightmare myself into loneliness.
Kiln-fired hydria, beasts of burden
dragged into its wet skin with sharp
precision. A man once offered me money
to let him feed me. He had fantasies
about where the food ended and his fingers
began, a prurient itch to accidentally
be chewed up and digested. How easy
it would have been to let my teeth slip
on the raging skin of his hand, provide the expected
laugh and lustrous gaze as I licked each digit
clean. Isn’t that what I always wanted?
To be naked and shelved and looked upon
with desire? Rotund
muse, an open, uncovered vessel,
reverent and delicate, even just for a moment.

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