We crouched below the stone ridge while our parents

snuck swills on the patio, our small shoes planted

against rocks, cresting a crescent strip of dirt. Our fingers

spread atop the vegetables, crowning magnolia

in the yard, evening Coke-black. We gleaned moonlight

off fingernails and other shiny things, bending knees

without breaking roots. You said there were carrots beneath

us and I wanted to see. I wanted to bend my fingers into earth

and watch them become orange root, guttered with knots.

I said we were watering carrots. You said we spat.

But we did not pull the carrots out or crane their heads

into the night’s cold ink. This is not that kind of story.

Two girls did not discover the meaning of beauty, their parents

laughing in the backdrop. We did not become close or stay

in touch. We just wanted to watch something grow.