6 and 7 1/2
In our hot stony drive
with sparse grass and a plaster gull,
my father lay under his old white Mercedes,
while my sister handed in his tools;
I was making dandelion chains.
If I’d known a moment as fragile as this
would begin their love affair,
I’d have lain beneath the car and held
his files and drivers in my mouth;
I’d have risen early and made him egg salad
sandwiches by the moon
while the mayonnaise blossomed;
I’d have cast a line forward like a fly fisherman
to a future where men choose me
and brought back parts of their desire.
I’d have tried to
as it was, we both rose like seeds in the warm air.
My sister fell upon fertile earth and found purchase,
while I sought loam and came upon
other stony ground.