in the yard, we dug for water 
with our plastic sand shovels.
shoveling grit & stones. pausing to inspect
ancient coins. our yard was a masoleum.
a ground of dinosaur bones & shard 
of ancient pottery.
father commandeered the wheel barrow
to cradle his broken televisions to & from
their old graves. he told them
"hush. it's almost over." i dreamed water.
i spoke only hope of water. 
sometimes laying on my back to look at the sun
i would believe, momentarily, that a lake
was lapping at my ankles. then, sitting up,
i would find nothing but the genuflecting grass.
it took weeks but also maybe only 
a couple of hours to hit the vein.
not me but my brother. him saying, 
"finally!" & all of us gathering by his crater.
the ink began as just a pen scribble stain.
we peered. watched the blue-black collect.
mix with dirt. a bruise is a special kind of wound.
colorful. enduring. a kind of skyline.
we watched the bruise like a nebula
until it opened. ink coming faster.
filling the dirt. blue on our hands.
blue between blades of grass.
father asking, "what have you done?"
brother, covering his face in shame.
gushing all night. slipping down the street.
the ink took with it the legs of the trees
& some of the rabbit's eyes.
but, secretly, when the other were
trying to sleep. i dipped my hand in.
i watched the color fill every line
of my hand. stamped my print
on the other side of the moon. 
i said, "hush. this is our secret."
the moon nodded obediently.

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