My sister sits behind the wheel of Betty,
our yacht, our silver Buick
and memories seep out of us like golden sap.
Remember how Dad used to burn
the webs of gypsy moths with his lighter?
With ribbons tied around their trunks,
trees were selected for cutting.
We made the sign of the cross as we watched the flame.
Remember how he set us on the backs
of horses that didn’t belong to us?
Our little legs felt the tickle of coarse hair
as mom stood behind the fence,
crooning Rhinestone Cowboy,
recalling her own Appaloosa pony.
Remember how we thought
I’d never be able to drive?
I’m quiet in the passenger seat.
No need to mention the fainting,
the unconscious stretches of silence.
All that blood to test, to fill up tiny tubes.
We miss our exit on the highway,
wind into the terrain with rivers
like open incisions between the hillsides.
I glance over as you run your fingers
over your scar, healed just above your heart.
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