Almost before words, before I know adults can be sad,
I sit topless in the backyard where hose water lifts away inmoments,
Retreats from concrete in an uneven line,
Is pulled from my fine strings of hair
And the pores of my terry cloth swim trunks,
Leaving me by the trashcans, reheated air coating mybreath
With the faint decay of vegetables and drying aluminum, redminerals.
In the woods, the heads and limbs of boys bob into sight
As they climb the dinosaur's back.
But Joe, bound in an old blanket like a swaddled baby,
Plays caterpillar at older people's feet in the paperygrass.
He draws toward me and my fear of being smothered,
Saying I will be wrapped up next.
Between the back stoop and the woods
Joe looks down where I squat on red earth,
So I ask him again,
"This is clay?"
* * *
On our way back down, the mountains were dark green
And blue, dark and misty as home.
The roads were already wet, and when we went spinningaround,
Sliding near the railing inside your steamy oldVolkswagen,
I didn't speak. We didn't spin long,
But we stay up there, like every moment always going on. Upthere still
Skidding, the two of us puny and surrounded by green,
I'm wondering if you're scared
You might damage my mother's daughter, almost your own.
That day you corrected the spin, but you are still
Turning to me, turning the wheel,
telling me about turning into thespin.
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