New Yard

There is hidden water sitting still behind
the bogonias here. There,
the wall at the back of the yard once grew
around my sister's fallen
braids, hairs grew gnarled into labyrinths,
keratin fed the orange tree;
I grew up by biting their rounds, trying to get
in, trying to grow a thin rind
for protection. Now, i see a headache in my new
winter cactus, my soured pear tree,
my new yard, growing without her protein, my spit
and blood. I need a new way
when I always knew how to weld us together
from tree root, from knots. Now,
I'm lost in breaking clay, dirty fingernails without
a day, a mind that is so full
of being filled, I keep pouring it out into the back
of the backyard, humming
out the enough for this enough to my sister who
is fructose far away, my sister
who is the bogonias drying too quick in our old sink.