Aozora Brockman

I remember the sticky sugar
chin and cheeks wet
with red watermelon
all to myself.

We'd crouch to pick Johnny Jump-ups,
part the round leaves to snap nasturtiums;
I'd sprinkle the mix onto mesclun,
feeling like a flower girl.

Once, the oat stalks were trees
but softer and lime green—
we trampled through until last light,
laughs mixing with heavy breath
and heartbeats.

I remember the baby white goat
splashed with speckles
soft flapping ears, eyes like marbles,
drinking from my bottle;

the stars dripping while we danced
by the bonfire in the field,
the way Daddy's cheeks puffed,
drunk with it all;

how everything felt like a question
when Grandpa dug the fingerlings,
each dunk into the bucket
an answer—

I remember flames:
looking at them licking and licking
until they ate themselves to ash.
My stomach weighed with wood.

I am hungry now
and this is not my home.