“Think long and hard about it. You won’t get a second chance with this one.” —Mother
I want to return to a sticky September afternoon,
back before my umbilical cord was snipped
and tied. Even further still, back before I was a seed
in the garden of my mother’s life.
There are a few things I want to negotiate
with the Creator, “do overs” for squandered opportunities.
This time I will whale watch in Halifax, Canada,
eat an extra slice of blueberry pie in Bar Harbor, Maine,
partake in “J’s” Garden of Eden where dirt smells
of new life and mud’s submissive to her will.
How beautiful! The way she sits at the potter’s wheel,
elbows tight against her body,
wet hands pushing, pulling, pinching mud
into a wide-mouth terracotta bowl.
I want to take her through Leaves of Grass,
let her feel the seductive edges of Whitman’s words.
This time when we go to the San Angelo Art Museum,
walk through her heaven of clay and fabric,
clay and iron, clay and wood, I will buy that petite teapot.
The one that teases me from a high wooden pedestal.
The one that argues with numbers in my checkbook.
The one with pink chrysanthemums blooming in its belly.
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