Dad’s gonna boil a needle,
poke your hand until it bleeds clean.
Lisa asks if I want to count stars after dinner.
I am bored with it
because our street is so bright.
it’s always eight.
unless we make our hands into visors
and look straight up.
Lisa says isn’t that praying?
a tree will grow out of your hand.
I imagine the weight of the seasons.
so he warms up a needle,
wipes my palm with alcohol,
digs my skin.
that night Lisa puts my palm
to her lips,
blows where the tree was uprooted.
so I kiss her on the cheek.
she stands up and walks home.
I count six stars with squinting.
there’s too much light to see
so far back.