We can actually hear the waves crashing down the beach,

the real and the dream, like so much sand and water.

Inside

There are shelves in the main room for display,

an old kitchen,

several workrooms,

alcoves, a broken kiln,

plastic bags of molded soil.

All the rooms

face the courtyard

in a giant horseshoe.

Dirt everywhere,

spread across the floors,

broken wood railings,

and cracked concrete,

an old walkway

between growing things,

vines reaching

and flowers sprouting,

the ground left to its own.

In the middle of the courtyard

is a plant graveyard,

organic matter dried to black.

A mulch pile, smelly, worm-filled.

I climb to the top

and stomp down a conquering foot.

This is the place

where my mother will escape,

reclaim her artist self,

and take me with her.

Who am I? I think, Pick’s question

still burning in my chest.

This question, like me,

too big to be asked

or answered in words.

Digging in the Dirt

A marine layer

sits on top of everything,

washing the wood.

More cleaning today.

Mom moves boxes,

pedestals, containers,

and paint.

I haul boxes of brushes

from car to studio,

sponges and rounds,

filberts and fans,

mops and riggers,

horsehair and synthetic

mixed together.

Pick and I clear the mulch pile,

sorting the larger debris,

random leaves and cuttings.

The smell is noxious, overwhelming.

Chemicals release,

mix with saltwater air,

organic things,

beautiful things,

breaking down.

Even solid things like buildings can change,

sometimes corrode when they are not cared for.

By the time the sun is overhead,

my arms are sore, tired, scratched,

my legs chafed red,

but it feels good.

We do this for hours,

slowly at times,

until the last piece of rot

is undone and pushed away.

Trolls

On Sunday, my mother

cuts the ends of a clay brick,

gives me and Pick

each a half brick,

a bowl of water,

wire-threaded sticks,

and a wooden spoon.

Use this—she points

to the edge of some chrome tool—

for the finer points.

Pick makes

simple, definable creatures.

At first it seems that they’re

from the game we are creating,

but soon I can tell they’re

trolls or gnomes of some kind,

big as thumbs.

Some have hats that actually can come off.

Some have weapons

or pets.

I make one,

green and tall,

with a long staff,

and another, its

belly falling over its waist.

He fills a tray with the creatures,

a metal baking sheet

where the trolls are clamoring

to make their way off,

to maybe slip into the dark places

of the gallery.

We take them to burn in the round

kiln in the courtyard.

When they are finished

and airing in the sun,

we paint the trolls

different colors,

sloppy at first, but we get better.

Pick puts tiny

price tags on their feet,

then hides them around the gallery.

Later on, some kids will find

one and pull it down in wonder,

carrying it