Golem

Clay took a step where no one had told it to. A golem stood, the word still wet on the brow, the old made man of Jewish story, heavy and waiting for the next letter. People who had spoken the name went quiet. They kept a golem gift of that obedient weight. It shows again in golem playing cards that feel like packed earth, in a golem notebook with one word written larger than the rest, in a golem postcard of the brow and the unfinished hand. The room holds still. The clay does not.