On the motorway brothers say I must stop singing—my voice
sticks pins in their heads.

We leave particles of ourselves at the Severn Bridge, near Wales
where a tree once made a hole in Arthur’s shin. Stitches and trips
to the beach to eat grains of sand and ham for lunch.

“Welcome to Wales” is the sign, and by now even the fighting
has stopped.

The car takes her crown to the twisting roads,
I feel my anti-sickness bracelet.

Brother announces the driver in the car behind us will kill us,
other brother predicts ways in which, father offers tools he will use.

We stop on a hill where the tree roots are lifting the tarmac. Father
walks down to the car and finds out we are fine.


In the beyond country of hump-back bridges and rivers untended,
sick rabbits up my throat and down onto my lap.

On her distant planet Ma registers the sick and angles her neck
out of the headrest. Holds my hand.

To Wales where the toilets flush funny and the sky is cold mountain.

Right-hand brother looks away out the window to the trees. Brothers
behind complain of the smell.

I hold the sick in my lap like a hamster.


To Wales where Taid shouts Emma! Emma!, a dog ambivalent
with visitors. Emma! Basket! She’s meant to take her wet smell
to the corner and settle with receding eyes.

We grind up the slate gravel to the gray house Taid will one day turn
yellow. The car ceases.

Brothers fling themselves round my seat and fly from the car.

I sit with my sick and a tired father.