The Jeweler by Ryan Vincent
The pliers and torches rest
on the alchemical desk
waiting to be stirred.
She lets the oxygen in and dons
the heavy goggles. Ready to sculpt,
she burns the metal into form
and adorns it with carvings of birds.
It’s hard to see beneath the visor,
so she slips it up and peers
over the brim of her glass, lenses
in lenses, to watch the sparks and
their flying.
Nineteen years ago she pushed
the torch flame over crinkling brulée
and laid it upon the cream of her sister’s wedding cake.
She’s gifted me with the yearning for creation,
that deep seeded compulsion to make,
that longing for life’s translation.
Every day I wear my mother’s rings.