Statistics about rainfall patterns,
sterile and chalky in your mother’s mouth.
A knowing growing gradually over your head
like the cumulonimbus that don’t.
Sacrificing the melon vines,
newly exuberant on their mounds of earth.
No more treefrogs at twilight. No frogs at all.
Tiny cracks in the earth. Foreheads
like cracked earth. Cattle with birdcage bones,
hips sharp like ploughshares.
They are not capable of blaming you,
but you apologize anyway
from the window of your parents’ car
as the dust grits in your teeth like sugar.
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