The Jarrah Wood Bowl's Silence

Don't you walk past this booth!
Who cares whether it's sunshine or rain out there —
I'm right here,

waiting, anticipation on its pedestal.
Hear me whisper, "Come here. Come here.
I'm the only one for you."
I like you.
Pick me up.
Yeah, that's right.
Hold me with both hands
so you can be soothed by my pleasing rotundity,
appreciate the exquisite narrowing of my tiny throat,
the lacework that the lathe left for a collar.

Close your eyes —
yeah, that's right —
while you smooth your way about my whorls and knots,
caress the clever traceries of ecstatic Nature.
Ah, you thrill to red? – I am jarrah wood.
I am a creature of Australia.
Can you feel the ocher threads of patterns,
my webs, the cracks,
the rise and fall of my breathing,
the patina of Mars?

My lightness is pleasing, too.
I'm rounded, hollowed, made to please.
What of the opening in my side,
that strange black emptiness
somewhat like the butterfly's two joined wings,
the imperfection that sets off smoothed bark?
Is that what interests your gentle senses:
that I am not perfect?
Perhaps the joy of imperfection
has caught your curious kindness.
Why do you slip your fingers into my side?
Do you try to touch the hand that made me,
touch my turner’s happiness?

See, you can’t put me down,
not even while you get your money out.
So you do believe in love at first sight.
Dear lady, let’s go home.
I want to make myself comfortable
on my new pedestal.

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