Another poem that is in the works. The final poem will probably look different from this first draft. Any comments? Any suggestions? Any confusion? Any questions?
My Mother’s Rolling Pin
The wood is rich, warm, almost oily,
from years of shaping pie dough, the lard pressed
deep into its solid core.
Attached are mismatched handles:
one painted red, one of blonde wood.
Surely jerry-rigged by my father to make do for a day.
My mother made pies, especially in summer,
when fruits made their way into her kitchen
in children’s pails and bushel baskets.
But it has been years since she patted dough
on a floured board and set her weight
against the misshapen lump.
She rolled up and down, back and forth.
A sprinkling of flour dusted on a sticking place,
and the dough stretched and gave.
And then the folding and unfolding into the pie tin.
And then into the oven, crust browning, juices
oozing out, scenting the curtains, tugging us in.
I slip my hands around the grooves my mother made.
And then I hear what I’d never heard before.
She was humming: so soft, so sweet, so sure.
Here, then, her brush, her pen, her dance, her song,
her flute, her sculptor’s knife, her poem.
And the artist I never knew.