with a river of syrup.

My mother puts her arm around me,

smiles to comfort

me away from the smell of the syrup,

and without thinking,

she slides her hands down to my love handles,

a normal, loving gesture.

She turns to Lisa,

We’re going to work on this mensch,

and she squeezes.

She’s forgotten the wound.

I cry out

because it still hurts.

I pull the linen napkin

over my mouth.

She remembers right away,

takes her hands off.

I feel her body stiffen.

I feel weak,

but I feel something else too,

that things have to be different,

that I need to change.

The names, the pokes, the looks

pile in every glass and jar,

cup and bowl

in the restaurant,

and at last I feel

the weight of my body.

Too heavy to be me.

In the middle of the restaurant,

I spill tears into my breakfast,

aware that there is no promise,

no magic pill, no work

except my work.

I make fists

in the tablecloth,

whisper

quiet prayers,

Please help.

Before the Opening

Mom says

today is about work,

because tonight is about

the opening,

for the world to see

the nursery-turned-gallery.

Pick’s mom drops him off

to stay for a few days.

Just in time for the work! I say.

Did you show Lisa everything? he asks,

and we run around the nursery,

everything new again

until we hear the yell

to get to work.

We walk from corner to corner,

pick up broken arrows,

dried clay, water balloon

shreds, and everything else.

We rake piles of

ashen leaves, and our breath

fills with dust.

We carry paintings two by two,

stretch canvases across

wood beams,

hang metal wires

and awkward hooks.

We swing on ladders

and go on the roof.

Pick carries in a new shipment of clay

bag by bag.

Lisa folds linens with my mother,

helps to paint new tiles.

My mother is teaching her brushstrokes,

hatching, scrambling, glazing.

Lisa is a good student.

My mother has been changing since

the morning, and by two p.m. she is

completely transformed into the Artist.

She holds a brush in one hand

and a glass of champagne full of grapes in the other.

She is painting the air with directions,

calling out commands

until our ears break.

Lisa and Pick string white Christmas lights

across the beams above the patio.

My mother sets out the wine and the champagne,

the cheese boards, bowls of almonds and olives.

Is your dad coming? Pick asks.

No, I say,

but I don’t really know.

The Opening

People flow into the nursery,

some to look at art,

some to meet the eccentric

Artist from the city,

some to drink free wine.

When the crowd dies down a little,

we sit on the roof,

beneath the beach stars,

watch the Artist come and go

while people talk, eat cheese,

and stare in front of sculptures,

nod in front of paintings.