My mother had Potter’s Hands
Her fingertips indented my cheeks
So my smile could become my hallmark.
Circumventing boobytraps that were destined,
She knew that the hue of this clay
Opulent atmospheres would question.
Behind my forehead she inscribed Psalm 82:6
So my mind’s eye will always be in view of my truth.
In my heart she carved that word of love in braille
Because something’s are better felt.
She flattened my arches, pigeoned my toes & bowed legs
In hopes that I would pace myself.
She dipped my tongue in multi-colors
She knew of the pictures it would draw.
She wanted me to mirror my father
So she strengthened my jaw.
She wanted me to resemble her father
So she sharpened my brow.
An owl was her favorite spirit animal
So she dimmed the skin around my sight,
Praying that I’ll question that everything
travels under the cloak of night.
Photo by Kseniia Ilinykh on Unsplash