hitch hike with me through a blinding snow
to the front door of our house in fleetwood

in 1996 i was born in the snow storm--

i guess not actually in the snow storm--

i was born in july 

there was still
snow on the ground in july

only it was the soil's
remembered feeling of snow--

the dirt dreamed of 
sensation-- cold hipbones--
laying in bed with the onion grass
bulbs and frost each night
as the sky only broke more
bags of dove pieces--

the earth remembered 
what it was like to pull snow cones
from her throat to snore--

she remembered 
in april when we were
supposed to be throwing up
daffodils in the celebration 
of a LITTLE GIRL to keep
pink balloons from bursting
into dove pieces
--HER cupcake fists and
grip of an icicle--

we stuck out our thumbs
in scratchy red mittens--

i was born in the house
next to the railroad tracks
across the street from a 
factory who felt every shout of 
wind from the blizzard-- 
held the snow in her stomach
to pretend she was expecting a child--
only to feel herself melting
in july--
caught pink balloon in her windows--

we were picked up by a rust
fringed blue jeep--
sat on each other laps
when we said we were headed to 
fleetwood
we were picked up by 
our father
only he didn't know
he was our father

i caught the snow in the 
color of my knuckles-- the frost
still crunches in the aluminum
crinkling of jaw
when i try to kiss people--
i popped the pink balloons
so that they could fall
in more pieces of doves--
you say CONGRATULATIONS
IT'S A GIRL
but you were wrong
i was a blinding snow-- 
crawled out of the factory
to hitch hike
with my father and you
to my front door step
bleeding with dove limbs--

my father offered us
candy spear mint leaves from the glove 
box-- we had to refuse
seeing as we had yet to be born

and who were you?
i have two brothers and you
were neither of them
and both of them--
you were the pink balloons
bursting into doves--
the body the sun paints
in bed to lie with us
all summer when the windows
are open and 
the factory building has burned down
but her soil still feels alone--

and when we get to the door step
knock with your cupcake fists--
coil into a basket
so they can float you high
as pink balloons-- 

the train has my voice
through the aluminum foil
railroad tracks at night--
clatter of a screen door 

the empty passenger seat of a blue
jeep-- our father eating the last
pieces of spearmint leaf candy 
and wanting to share it
with the passengers 
no longer sitting there beside him

i was born in a blinding snow--
sleep with the hot body of July--
pop pink balloons
with my scratchy red mittens--