Chinook

That summer your lover spoke in birdsong, Pressed on your tongue The single seed.

Mom was a hunchback in the yard Shoveling dirt with snuffed-out snubs Of your last stepdad's cigarettes. When you ask her what she's doing She says she's digging out a cistern To catch your sister's tears.

The sitter's breath smells like her bramble, Moves windward past your pitcher's glove. You asked the time. The answer's "bed."

Soon she'll wing her blithe lips, kneel-down And plant onto your face a violet gin-kiss.

But nothing bloomed.

Your dog that's lost is forever-lost, Wound clockwise beneath the car Of your mother's failing hatchback.

But you don't know that, not yet—

The river still is still. Unrepenting, it's Still cold, still sends off the polite Shock when boyish bodies Hit the water.

You've become so sentimental.

Memory, The reservoir you camped inside, Coughs up your cut-rate tent.

The dog buried in the yard Shifts its carcass, scratches His favorite spot, behind the ear.

You float for miles on your back Down the half-moon of the river.

Back there—

What God took you for He took you for

Your sister's tear

Swims finally Backwards, Carries with it The secret seed. Moves listless as The picture

Of your ex-lover's Blessèd beak.