He likes action,
violence, surprise, plot: not shards
of household glass assembled
with tweezers, blurred vision,
old glue:
the kind I find at the back
of the kitchen drawer to make do
on hours of reconstruction work
to the delicate-handled ceramics he's thrown

all summer then packed
in a box, too little bubble wrap,
most bodies, though not the lips
or limbs, in tact;
and when we sit shoulder
to shoulder for an entire evening without cutting
ourselves on sharp
edges, managing to get most of the pots back into shape
with only some seams showing,

with only a few disfiguring beads of glue overflowing
from the pressure,
with just the slightest light
headedness from the fumes,
it's an event, if not miraculous,
at least worth noting:
worth the exclamation
I keep to myself as our
fingertips touch over and over,
as if I'd always been the Mother.