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