Three babies came between us.
They were all sucked away or withered on the vine.
The summer you were born I had buds forming on my branches.
I had touched tongues for extended periods of time with boys
who thought I was fifteen or sixteen, boys with skateboards, boys
with ripped collars, boys with fathers like mine; gone and drunk.
I rolled in the hills with them,
leaving circles of flattened grass behind us.
I came home through your window.