We were children gathering the night around our feet,
drawing down the moon in our sun-dipped hands, running
with our hair out in the warm spring rains
that pressed jewelry beads to the earth.
We picked the berries from shiny holly trees, their goo cement
for the fairy houses we built
out of abandoned bricks in the woods behind our house.
We lay under the thatched night sky and fell asleep to spiders.
In those days, summer flickered on like a light bulb.
And we squeezed lemons into sour juice, selling dad 50-cent cups
while he mowed the lawn.
We caught snakes in the ivy patch that curled in the front yard,
lured bees into our cupped palms with applesauce.
We drank root beer by the creek at Norton swim club
back when four dollars was a fortune, splashed
water onto salamanders fumbling over the rocks, sinking
up to our ankles in the silvery soil of the bank.
We were a dangerous pair
with the premonition of our mother’s blood:
my sister’s whirlwind tempers,
my half-truth dreams.
building communion with our holy stranger dirt
When the sky cracked
and the moon split from thunderstorms like my sister’s rage,
I hunched, shivering under her bedcovers
while the rain pelted the window like cicadas.
Some copper evenings, we crouched on the back porch,
grinning and rolling apples like balls of candy
to the deer staring at us with their blackberry eyes,
perched on legs
like stilts, vibrating violin strings, leaping away
through the sun shower like an opera.