There is a fig tree
in my childhood
backyard that sings
like a parched candle
wickered and unbothered,
but the sound of this wind,
the bird of turbulent winters
dies in between its branches
I wish I hadn't known
I was also the sky
until I bore witness
to my sister holding one
part of the year and
beaded hours dripped onto
my thigh scorching
like wax sweltering with
permission to blister my tongue
This reputation burns
unbridled heaps in my backyard
waning stars bleed pleas
for tenderness