"try a sestina," she said.

The lemons didn’t stand a chance 

Seeds ripped out of their opaque yellow homes

Squeezed sour into a white mug 

Over steaming mint leaves of forest green. 

I hold the mug in my palms 

Not listening to whatever you just said.

Yesterday after a meltdown, "I love you," my mother said 

Giving me a second chance 

While rolling cookie dough in her palms.

Standing in the kitchen, the heart of our home

In front of a cabinet painted sage green  

Where we keep the coffee mugs.

Reaching for the top shelf, “would you like a mug” 

Is the most formal apology I have ever said. 

I offer to make your favorite tea, jasmine green,

Though we both know eventually I will need a third chance.

She just wanted peace in our home

I watch it slip through her palms. 

I guess I’ll drink the tea from my palms. 

Staring at the wreckage of a shattered mug

Forces me to consider never coming back home. 

"Please clean it up," she said. 

But the crash stopped me in my tracks, so fat chance 

Like I’m waiting at a red light that never turns green. 

I remember when my favorite color was green. 

I was five, painting a canvas with my fingers and palms.

The art teacher gave me another chance 

When she saw me resign my brush to a collective water mug. 

"Try again," was all she said. 

I couldn’t bear to bring mediocre artwork home.

In my backpack I carried the landscape home 

With rolling hills of pastel green.

"It’s beautiful," my mother said. 

Like a critic, she held it gingerly in her palms, 

Studying the technique and sipping from a clay mug,

"Do you want to be an artist," she asked, "you have a fair chance."

"When you fly away from home, take every chance" 

She said, "grasp the opportunities that fall into your palms,

Potential isn’t evergreen nor does coffee pour itself into a mug."