The rain hit the glass
in a slow movement
and through a tiny pinhole in the speaker,
the music softly came.
Except it didn't go into my ears
and instead went onto my tongue
where it felt heavy enough to swallow,
and smoothly it moved down my throat
until it found all the feeling
in my belly,
and it felt sweet—like the white
and yellow flowers that your mother
keeps on the dining room table
that is made out of the cedar
that we cut down together
while it was still light enough
to see your hands outside.
Sometimes, I see something
as far down as the bottom,
but something small begins to lift me
back up
and I notice how my foot sits crooked
on the gas,
the same way you would turn
your foot sideways
to gently tap your guitar pedal
and I hum but it's only loud enough
inside of my own head,
and I can barely hear Jonah
when he tells me
that the tail lights flail out in front of him
in one single straight line
but I know that he is really telling me
that he knows how far away God is
and I feel his anger
when I touch his arm
and we say our prayers loudly
in the dark
but God wouldn't even hear them
if he were right across the street
from my Grandmother's house where
we found that tree
when the light was changing so quickly
and I think of your father
and his father
and his brothers and sisters,
chewing their lips while
making their offers
and I know
that their bones
have made shallow indents
in the earth but it can't
matter because it is layer
upon layer
upon layer
and when I think I have seen
the middle,
I rest my head in my hands
and notice how
we are the only ones awake
in the whole neighborhood
and I think that in some way
you have found a way into my
head
but I know that isn't true
when I hear the sweet
beginning of your brain's mathematics
pulling you to sleep
and I begin reciting their equations—
patterns as unintentional
as the landscape that follows us back home
to where you grab my small hand
in the dark
just as the sweat begins to
roll off of it
as smooth as glass.