Your grandmother’s grave nestles in the nest of mountains’ thick hair. You try to name every tree that looks like your grandmother. A hurricane found underneath your seat is your uncle’s reckless driving technique. He tries to kill time by outrunning patience. Your mother holds you down in the back seat, prevents you from flying out the window. Too soon, she says, to meet your grandmother this way.
Summer rests his head on your shoulder,
thirsts on your teenage sweat; a young love bursts on twines and twigs. Green Beetle parks by the foot of the hill. It’s summer. Everything melts. Chocolate your mother lies about buying makes a puddle on the seat. Don’t lick it.