As if to feel for rain he turns his palms upward, while outside
the streetlamps bloom like night flowers To be honest, I had not
expected such a request from him, at least: Tightly And so,
I cross the thick string over his outstretched arms; I loop it
thrice behind the headboard and pull A gasp
walks itself to the far corners of the room Don’t make me ask
for anything, he had asked me I know exactly
how we disavow shame, the shadows of his mouth so dark
I work my fingers inside expecting soil
or the pupil of my father.
I can’t help it—I can’t ignore the summer
my father and I crushed mint to the roofs of our mouths, while beneath us
the dirt hardened into carapace Perennials, he’d said, pointing,
annuals. Did you know: lavender can survive a drought I squeeze
the throat’s thick pillar, his eyes roll toward the window. For
how long? I wonder. Beyond the window:
both our fathers
spill thick shadows over the landscaped yard How much
longer? When I slap his face he moans as if validated. Summer made me
reckless: another man’s hand lifted my leg from behind,
moonlight torching the garden We had trampled the baby squash
and tomatoes, the paths our bodies carved through the green—Coyotes,
my father insisted, until he saw the condom.
It was not fear I felt when he flashed his
palm. The ground brittle beneath me—I yearned for it. And my god,
his voice—when he raised his voice—
it sounded like thunder.
