Jeffrey Bahr Raku Pot Wheeled and bisque-fired, lifted from the kiln anonymous, each mark an accident of pine boughs. Sold, empty, holding roses, empty again my gloved hands elsewhere -- poised with the ring, holding the newborn's dusty head, palming a lemon, the surprise of possession. Here is the boy, trailing his fingers on the pot's rough husk, my boy but equally unmarked, a fly lands, lost on the image of needles. Up these stairs, salt thrown against the heat of coupling, the bartering of faces, your sweat's signature. Look up. One turn of the world and still you can't parse your desire, even the spider must eat. You can't keep it all. You can't keep any of it. Jeffery Bahr divides his time between Colorado and California, writes poetry and short fiction, and is on the editorial staff of The Alsop Review. His work has appeared in various publications including Barrow Street, Plainsong, Indiana Review, The Spoon River Poetry Review, Rattle, and The Portland Review.