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 touch him--

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.