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.