the smell of sprinkler hitting aluminium siding
hot and metallic
like dust turning into steam
and i am a girl in yakima
visiting her grandma
who stays inside
propped in a recliner
(i still think of her when i smell chapstick)
in the field across the street everything is dead.
the grass always brown.
weeds up to my waist.
a dog was buried there.
innocent of a crime against a mini poodle.
the wrong laborador!
you got the wrong dog!
and that is how i learned about injustice.
i would imagine the crickets song
was really a rattlesnake warning.
my heart would quicken and i would hold my breath
walk slowly through the ticks and tumbleweeds
waiting for a strike.
if i survived i would make it to the canal
dry and scattered with treasures
like tires and wristwatches.
once i found a bike.
rusted and twisted like beachwood
i wondered if a girl was once on it.
if she was on it when if fell into the canal.
i thought about her clawing at the sides.
and decided i didn't want
to play in the canal
the back yard was better.
apple trees and shade.
worms and green green grass.
and the rest i forget
because that is what happens
when you aren't afraid
but instead you take a nap
and dream of horses in orchards.