I am lying

head on the grass

in fever

on the narrow panel

between

my grandmother’s porch and the road,

the blacktop buzzing under automobile

and the sun

cool

against my burning eyes,

 

and this is the first rush of cochineal I have ever seen. 

 

I was thinking at the time that I would remember,

and even though memory is a failure,

I do remember. 

 

I remember the moment,

the flowers and weeds climbing the wire fence,

the farmhouse across the road,

the barn in soft yellow pine,

and the rusting pump

shoved into the boards over the well. 

 

I can smell the ground,

the damp,

the dog fennel,

and I remember

the blue sky seeping through my eyes.