Clay and Anchor
You shed your skin this morning and left it on my plate, next to the grapefruit I sliced and salted
for breakfast. Then I yanked my teeth out, one by one, and placed them on the table next to your
fork, fixed you eggs over-easy while you buttoned up your work shirt. You looked like a new
woman, standing beside the kitchen window, touching yourself, becoming all fingertips and
cloth, weaving, reconstructing each grain of light coming through from the outside. We both
sang a song with no name. I called you Clay and Anchor and you called me Clementine and what
was done was done.
Ashley Inguanta is a poet and art photographer whose work often focuses on romantic love, the spirit, landscape, and place. Most recently, you can find her poems in Contrary Magazine, The Santa Fe Literary Review, and The Familiar Wild: On Dogs & Poetry. Her newest short collection of poetry, The Island, The Mountain, and the Nightblooming Field is forthcoming in May of 2020. You can learn more about Ashley’s poetry, art, and teaching at ashleyinguanta.net.