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You seek an urn
I can tell before you even
Head to that part of my shop
And as always
I can’t resist the urge to reach
For your sorrow—or lack thereof
To determine
What kind of pottery
Would suit you best
Terracotta for a lifelong love
Porcelain for a love that was yet new
Raku for a tumultuous union
Pit-fired for an arranged marriage
That somehow proved to be a love match
But no—this is no unexpected loss
The dearly departed died by your hands
I’d offer black raku
But I feel this was no crime of passion
You planned it
The same way I planned the intricate
Carvings of my chattered pieces
And there—my gift never lies
You’re drawn to the gouged slip
As surely as a cat is to catnip
Fortunately for you I am but a potter
And not a detective
As I ring you up, I whisper softly
“Your secret's safe with me”



Gerri Leen is a Pushcart- and Rhysling-nominated poet from Northern Virginia who's into horse racing, tea, collecting encaustic art and raku pottery, and making weird one-pan meals. She has poetry published or accepted by The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction, Dark Matter, Dreams & Nightmares, Liquid Imagination, NewMyths.com, and others. Visit gerrileen.com to see what she's been up to.
Current Issue
15 Aug 2022

You turned and Hailé was hunched by the counter, holding the Rift in his bare stomach together with his hands.
Their eyes trace the curves of our gears / like birds eyeing the shoreline and we / recite the songs our makers wrote
During recess, we would fight all the time.
Wednesday: Braking Day by Adam Oyebanji 
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