A Yankee Comes South: My Mother

In honor of a much anticipated visit from my mother, I thought I'd share this poem I wrote for her a couple years ago.

My Mother’s Studio

When she bows over the metal wheel,

elbows resting against her thighs,

hands shaping the turning clay;

and when she rolls up, wheel paused,

and reaches behind with a wet, gray hand

for the rib lying on the table

then dips the rib and both hands

into a bucket of cloudy water

and dripping, leans in again:

the waterfall outside roils in the afternoon,

through the window sunlight falls

into the dusty air and lies warm on the table,

books of paintings by Cézanne,

Van Gogh, and Chagall, and a tape

of Bach’s variations lean next to her fired,

finished pots that wait on the shelf

by the door—five mugs, low and wide,

a stack of temoku bowls,

and penguins, glazed matte black,

looking in all directions

as if wondering how they arrived

in a pottery studio in Vermont, and who is this woman,

their apparent creator, with the spiky hair,

and the clay-smudged glasses.