3 Works by Lilly Schmidt

October 13th, 1931

When I am in the clay studio
I imagine my hands are calloused
but gentle – how I
imagine god’s
to be. My nails are
pushed back, clogged by clumps of earth
as I carve the path for rivers.
But not rivers,      no.

Again and again I trace
the clay collarbone of the bust
and measure its cheeks
by the emptiness of my palms

At home when I am
untying my shoes my skin cracks
across the knuckles
Clay dries the skin
and pulls out the blood
I kiss the back of my hands
blood painting my lips shinier than gloss

(When soldiers are soaked
in blood they claim
they can taste the metal on
their tongue
but) I have never tasted anything richer

When I rinse my hands
under the luke-warm tap
I forget to scrub
under the nails
so that I can
carry the memory of
crafting my
Christ the Redeemer,
my Venus de Milo,
my David.

(The building of Christ
the Redeemer lasted longer than
it’s homeland’s civil war
This time, I think our soldiers
will bite their cheeks much longer)

Photos can not do
justice, querida,
but in my carefulness
I measured the angle of your chin
every time I
held your face to kiss.

Pop Rock Kisses

What changes
aaaaaaaaa besides the sound?

We each pour purple rocks into the palms
of our hands and throw them back
like shots. We hear crackling, like the spark
of a firework.

We pause to pop the rocks between our
teeth and then return to each other with
smiles.

I have swallowed firecrackers whole,
sizzling, my heart on fire,
but what has changed?
Is this not what every kiss with you is like?

Lost God

And in his ear, God whispered,
aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa “Kill yourself.”
Jesus washed the feet of his disciples,
scrubbing between the toes.
His own feet were tough, cracking,
mud highlighting the brittle, dry cracks like gold
in pottery. He knew he couldn’t
kill the voice in his head,
so he scrubbed away his soul from earth.