Six and Seven 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 Iâ€™d known a moment as fragile as this
would begin their love affair,
Iâ€™d have lain beneath the car and held
his files and drivers in my mouth;
Iâ€™d have risen early and made him egg salad
sandwiches by the moon
while the mayonnaise blossomed;
Iâ€™d have cast a line forward like a fly fisherman
to a future where men choose me
and brought back parts of their desire.
Iâ€™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.