Chocolate

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.