One by one I sculpt them
with delicate fingers and precise motions
until features emerge,
coerced by each caress of the clay.
I trace the forehead down to a nose
that bends and curves like the ridge of a mountain
gently dropping after its climbed to a peak
up, up and around I carve out the hollows of a cave
that cradles deep set eyes and make me pause—
Warm and melting,
the clay heats beneath my touch
malleable and ever-changing,
the terracotta color nests beneath my nails,
elusive and uncapturable,
the eyes that were once mine now belong to someone else
I turn around to see the hundreds of faces I have crafted
but even in a room of proclaimed self-portraits,
Not one looks like me.