My pottery teacher told me, What makes pottery precious is the fingerprints you leave in the clay. I don’t know what my parents did with the frog bowl I sculpted for them, but they made me sign the Dollarama frog I bought. They wanted to hold onto who it came from. This flawless thing. My Dad never let us eat in the car. Cheezies, with their orange dust, reserved for picnics in parks with sinks. My pottery teacher, my brother, my friend; pancreas, liver, breast. Some factory settings are random. After chemo, my niece’s hair grew back curly. The Saturday before Christmas, she looked perfect as a present in her box. On Christmas afternoon, I bite into a carrot. I need to feel something inside me snap. They say Cheezies are like snowflakes and people: no two are the same.
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Angeline Schellenberg is the author of three full-length poetry collections: Tell Them It Was Mozart (Brick Books, 2016), Fields of Light and Stone (UAP, 2020), and Mondegreen Riffs (At Bay Press, forthcoming 2024). Angeline works as a contemplative spiritual director, second shooter at Anthony Mark Photography, and host of the Speaking Crow poetry open mic in Winnipeg. She enjoys hunting the riverbank for beautiful broken things. AngelineSchellenberg.wordpress.com
*Note: The final line is from a quote by W.T. Hawkins Inc. manager Shirley Woodcock in https://www.intelligencer.ca/news/local-news/bellevilles-own-cheezie-are-like-snowflakes-and-people-no-two-are-alike
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The Litter I See Project 