Helen of Troy Calls Her Sister

               cly, you remember when it was us and the boys 
               and mom and dad and we all drove up to 
               chincoteague for the summer and the car just
—collapsed—
               —just broke down, and dad took the hood up 
               and put his head in the engine and hollered
               for mom to keep turning the key and the sky—
—like fire—
               —record heat, air-con kaput with the rest
               and the sun crushing down like a mouthful
               of lemon peels, like the inside of a deer’s gut—
—and castor wouldn’t—
               —wouldn’t get out of the car, he was afraid
               of the snakes, you remember the snakes,
               buckets of them wiggling around the trees—
—rising up—
               —leaping up to strike, and i said momma don’t
               you see what’s happening, but that’s when dad
               all punked on motor oil snatched up a rock—
—a boulder—
               —biggest one he could find, and he smashed
               that thing down on the engine so hard i thought 
               the earth had split, sound like a plane crash—
—like a death—
               —but damned if that engine didn’t roll right 
               over for him, just spread its legs and purred, 
               and there was nothing sweeter than pulling out—
—past the trucks—
               —past the men, none of whom had stopped 
               to help, and castor, poor kid, didn’t he throw up?
               all over the back seat, smelled like milk and rot—
—all the way to virginia—
               —all the way to the big house, you remember
               the hurricane? you remember the hydrangeas,  
               how they looked so bright inside the storm?