A song by The Beach Boys

washes through satellite dead spots.

Riding in a used Corvette

the kind with the hammerhead headlights

that flip up and down.

Papa’s hands wave and point above the gear stick

like he’s discussing spots on a family burial plot.

I drive without the gas

only my sticky palms and short fingernails.

Papa gives me instructions

between scoops of his Mexican Sundae

while we loop through the high school parking lot.

I keep operating

we keep moving

until Papa tells me where to park

and we orbit around the ‘vette

then slide behind its fins.

After the short drive back it is a story

then it is a memory

once the youngest cousin says their first words

or another one says something beyond their years

or when Papa falls ill

and ruminates from his crinkly bed on wheels

just in case.

This is me

squandering silence:

A tree wanes and

it sounds like the AC

starting up.

The dog laps up water

and backfires with a wet cough

that sounds like a judge

at a tennis match

sitting in a chair above.

The coffee smells like

the suffocated moans

of humble dreams.

Any sort of question

comes on the end of a hook

caked in mud and orange grass

and my dead skin.

I thought I saw it

for a moment

but it was only a mirror

that I wasn’t standing in front of.

Even if I heard it

I’m not sure what I would do.

It seems disrespectful

to then ignore it with a poem.

Better to echo it

like an arborist

or a dog trainer

or a tennis student

or a barista

or what you want to hear.

I forgot you took that picture

I think I lost that shirt

Last time I saw it

We were day-drinking

It was humid on the lake

You were pregnant

We went for a boat ride with my family

I nearly napped through the entire trip

At night we fucked quietly on the twin bed

With sun-dried hair and pressed pink skin

The universe had its fun but it went

Too far with the 7/11 pregnancy test

When no one laughed

I needed an excuse to call off work

So we could make the appointment.