Then I'm on my knees in the street of our
summer, my brother staring from his trike,
his lips a pinked oh, blood pooling
honey-like from my mouth, the fresh, car-
washed cars circling like frightened cats --
a scar forming in my throat that will never
heal. This is all your fault, I am trying to say.
The dalmatian reaches for me with a gull cry,
his leash staked to the dying spruce of our
yard. Our mother hums sadly, watching us
through the screen door. In the distance, I
hear someone mow a lawn: sputter, chug, stall.