My mother’s failed flowerbed, her dogs’ graves in the moss-covered grove by the shed.I can’t think of themwillingly;the dogs all diedin Biblical ways: horrific& in passing.Before we sold the house,we gatheredon my mother’s bed.She dug her thumbsinto either sideof my tender spine,wanted to soothe an acheI claimed,she & my brother high.The popsicle wrappershe & I slipped behindthe bread box, strings of antsin the summers;old polaroids in cheap,ripping albums,tucked by clovers & petalsI took from the woodsnot realizing they’d one day dryout. Once, a yard fireexploded, blew my mother forwardfor putting too much gason its piled leaves& made liquidthe skin of her shin.When she washed the trailerwalls, smoke drizzled down themlike basted fat.Wasps dying for their nestin the gutter;how, when a yellow jacket stung meon the way homefrom the bus stop,my mother punched it deadthen looked for itin the gravel.Empties in the shower.The roly-poly I loved so muchI made it a housefrom a Crackerjack box& flushed itwhen it died; the turtle I found& keptbeneath my bedwith a leaf to eat,that my brother threwfrom the bowed backdoor before he saidI was cruel