38
Petit
Iwasasilentandsullenchild, deepasawell, magma boilingatitsbase. Gettingmetotalkwaslikedrawing waterandbringingupalavabomb.
Icallherandshe rises, trailinga rainof rootsandstalactites, likethestormcloudattheendof childhood’ssummer.
Shesitswithmeatthetable, ahulkof electricair; ariver’s catch, raisedandsuspended.
Awholefarmhousehoversinthe gloom. Inherthunderhead thegentlecowsaretrapped, theirbellsringing.
SevenyearsIstayedsilent.Iwouldnottalktoherstorm-face oreclipse-hair, eventhatonenightshesoftened, andIsaw thelunararcsonherbrow.
Ilaythetable. Thewaxedclothisprintedwithsunflowers andlavender, poppiesandcorn. Thecicadas chanta grace. It issummerinourplates.
Thewineisfromourvineyard–aprehistoricvintage. The fruitisfromourtrees. Iweededthem. Iprunedthem. The donkeycarriedwatertothem.
MyplatespinsandIstarteatingCatherinewheels. Idrink thewineof newbornstars; sipcognacoldasCentaurus.