We drive through the desert heat
in August; eight months pregnant,
and I sit in the backseat.
Mom and dad aim the air vents
to blast air conditioning
that cools me. On the down slope
of mountains, pines are giving
way to wildflower shells, no hope
for empty husks drying up
no longer green, nor Spring,
and withered like the milk ducts
of your breasts, large from giving
birth. We come to rescue you.
We make it through El Centro –
Yuma will be coming soon
where your radiator flowed
over under the dead weight
of your lead foot on the gas,
the stifling heat, the drive straight
through your unannounced, careless
flight. We’re on our way to save
you from the boy who convinced
you roughly to give away
your baby (your young heart winced)
and leave home at seventeen.
You don’t want to be rescued.
I wait in that heat, unseen,
while you stand there and argue,
hot words flung at mom and dad.
I watch desert jack rabbits,
belly round with baby, and
wait for your angry habits
to cool, for you, my little
sister, to come home; each curse
makes our family more brittle.
I sat, praying, while the nurse
helped you give birth in July.
But when my turn came in three
short months, you’d gone, no goodbye.
You’d moved on - Albuquerque.

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