her legs crossed,

my father pacing.

Ari? he says, surprised, and pulls me in,

sits me in his desk chair,

gives me the name of the woman on the couch,

who smiles as if she knows me.

Look at all these orders!

Bright-white paper scratched with squid ink,

some numbers and names unrecognizable,

stacked and folded in uncertain order.

The Artist ignores him,

moves from table to table

in an unbreakable orbit.

This will be her last day

of showing everyone

how to paint her designs,

of overseeing other artists,

of meetings and questions

and business that she doesn’t understand.

Spirits beg for her to release them

into terra-cotta and canvas.

I’m going to work on my collection,

she announces. The other artists gasp.

Somewhere near the beach.

Artists all over the showroom

clap and cheer for her.

My father stands at the edge of the room,

claps his enormous hands

in rhythmic exhalation,

relief.

I want this relief to find me too,

but all I can think about

is how much change is about to happen,

and I might not ever see the warehouse again.

Her Hands

On Thursday afternoons

after school,

my mom teaches drawing classes

at the Marin County Rec Center.

The best part is that Lisa

and her mom both go.

Lisa’s the youngest student,

but my mom says she has a real gift.

She paints the entire canvas

without any fear. She just lets

the colors explode wherever she wants,

unafraid to get her hands dirty.

Sometimes we all get dinner after class,

and soon our moms become friends,

drink wine and talk

while me and Lisa write stories

and build worlds together.

She loves vintage music,

and I tell her about

the old TV shows and movies

I like to watch.

Once after the drawing class,

Lisa, with her long, wild blond hair,

her hands full of charcoal and paint,

in her torn jeans, her Def Leppard T-shirt,

and her tall white boots,

took my hand and walked me outside.

What’s it like having a mom like yours? she asked.

My mom drinks all the time, Ari.

All. The. Time. Even more after the divorce.

But all I could feel was her hand,

like it had stretched itself

over my whole body.

I didn’t know how to answer

right away. I thought

about telling her what

I imagined she wanted to hear,

about art and studios

and books everywhere,

but being with her

made the truth just come out:

She smokes too much,

yells all the time,

and I never know

what will happen next.

I could see in her eyes

she was looking for something,

squeezing my hand tighter now,

like she might squeeze even more truth

out of me, a key to something.

I didn’t know what to do.

but

this hand

in my hand

would unravel me.

Marzipan Potato

Sometimes after school, I skip

the first bus,

take the two-mile walk

home with Lisa.