Massachusetts 14, or Poem Re-Drafted

Letter to Adam

Do you remember the talks
we used to have in the garden?
I was teaching you how to distinguish
the weeds from the flowers, kneeling
over you in the dirt, watching your
face as you tugged
each stray plant from the ground. You
looked terrified, as if I were asking you
to choose between your children.
When I told you this, your voice cracked
as you asked, “But aren’t you?”

I know
the pain of separation.
When I ask myself which part was the hardest, I think of
how I swallowed my tears
when I drew the line between
ocean and sky and watched
as the raindrops kissed them goodbye.
I think about how I couldn’t keep my hands
from shaking when I lifted South America out of Africa’s
arms and carried her across the water
while she sobbed into my shoulder.
I still can’t watch the tide rise
towards the full moon, with the hope
of holding her one more time.

When I was finished, I told myself it was good
again and again – an incantation
to ward off the destruction I’d caused.

My first real creation was that first lie.

I couldn’t tell you this here.
This was the one place I thought
I’d done it perfectly. Every flower,
every tree, every stone was for you,
even before I knew you.

You were an accident.
An unexpected result of an
unexpected pleasure. After five days,
I was spent. I don’t know what
angel put the clay in my hands,
but it seemed
like an invitation to play. So I did.

As I worked, I began to think the way every potter does,
wondering what my creations will
be able to hold as I’m forming them.

Halfway through, I knew you would hold the things
I couldn’t give anyone else, but

I also gave you the burden I needed to share.
I made you responsible
for every distinction:

whether pulling weeds from flowers,

or deciding when a revolution is less dangerous
than obedience.

Because you, too, are a creator.

You, not I, decide what matters.

It’s taken me so long to realize
how much I missed our talks in the garden,
and you have every right to ignore me
but
I offer you this: you were right – about the weeds.

Come home.