I recall
there was a trip: it happened

out of time. Mother
in the car: Shut

your chops! And it was
funny, you understand.

The German sky
did not care

that we were gone—nor,
I expect, did the friends, nor

the cherry trees. I left
with new

red welts down my back. Mother
said: this hurts me

more than you. Where
did she hear that? I thought

she was an unmarked
child. I recall

those days smelled
thin. There were hedgehogs

everywhere drinking
milk out of saucers

like dark stars
at the moon. We

were wild at the same
time we were

clean—even the shit
of the sewer

slid off
me down the drain. Not

my stealing, not
my driving mother’s car

was a surprise: I was
eight, you understand—

and the world was
half my size.