My mother shaped it

as she talked to her mother

at the kitchen table,

an unusual warmth

that night between them.

Outside, crickets celebrated.

 

An unusual warmth,

that night of summer air.

Outside, crickets celebrated

and wild creatures hunted.

Between my mother

and grandmother, words

I can’t recall.

 

Outside, wild creatures hunted.

Inside, burnished by kitchen light,

they drank tea and spoke

words I can’t recall.

Mother worked red clay

with her fingers.

 

She drank tea,

and worked red clay,

and from her fingers, a rose

blossomed—no thorns, no scent.

She pressed russet earth

into a model for me.