there is a moment each episode
when everyone’s glazed pots
enter the kiln, perfectly
finished or otherwise
and the host declares with finality
that there is nothing more
to be done by the potters
i imagine being forced
to surrender control
at stakes like these
to be exponentially harder
than all the sadistic builds
and timed horrors
the judges throw at them
in their post-game interviews
some potters affect ease
with cheeky grins
though their use of words
like “hope” and “pray”
betrays their doubts
others wear a nerikomi
of angst on their faces
their sleepness nights
laced with nightmares
of shattered vases and dreams
their fates out of their hands
the potters grudgingly accept
this truth and beauty:
that uncertainty is a fact of life
and attachment exquisitely futile
humbled by the clay gods
all they can do is wait
as elements fuse recklessly
in the kiln’s black box
knowing they have given
all they can