it’s hard to remember summer.
The wind is a baying dog. It lobs next door’s bin
over my fence—the TV’s on the blink, Rick Stein’s head
flat against the sky, jaw stretched below his chest.
His teeth, piano keys. Autumn was best,
my cheeks rust-red like when my sister bitch-slapped me
when we were kids—I was a sitting duck for her rage. I’d try
to cut and run before her next cold front moved in—hide
in the tangle of wonga wonga vine, its
bell-shaped flowers and honey-musk
a balm to soothe my open wounds while
they scabbed over
