Roots

We eat peaches and bury the pits

in the sunbaked backyard soil, hoping

to make something of ourselves.

We are fifteen, juice dripping down

our chins, and the world unravels

exactly the way we expect. The pits

never grow into anything, just like

we knew they wouldn’t. We are fifteen

and summer blisters its way through

our bodies. I learn to swing a hatchet,

wonder about the fecklessness of God.

We use our hands to make melodies

of each other, slowly begin to belong

in fewer places. The peach pits rot

as my mother turns over in her bed.

We are fifteen, windows down,

and we are drenched in being. Nothing

ever grows, but we still search

for meaning. There are no new trees

but we are fifteen, passing laughter

in secret. We will be this for as long

as we can, until the rain comes,

until the sky blooms, until we are sixteen

and there are fresh peaches

and we realize darkness does not mean

there will never be light.

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