The Wheel


The night before you
were born, a November
fog rolled the edges off
the fall. An evaporating
moon lifted the corners
of her mouth, baring a break
in her circle. In the morning,
we scraped the ice off your
grandmother’s car. The clouds,
were butter-knife-spread apricot
jam on the toasted sky. Through
your mother’s twelfth-story
window, buildings
parted as she pushed
you into the blue day.


The last time I
saw you, the plumeria
was blooming in
your yard, you told me so. You
sugared your plate, pulled
dough across it and through
apricot jam. You trusted
we were yours and
took in our gestures, timbre,
description of our
living room rugs. We
stood in your studio, decades
of kiln-set gardens. I
know you wore
lipstick as you left, painted,
like your platters and plates
as your children collected,
and autumn parted her
curtains for you.