We're climbing the tree, the very same,
A venusian Maple comical, its
standing next to the dying Walnut,
while tornado chain link yawns below.
Our arms, taut across inner elbows,
longer than usual, are up-stretched, grasping.
A rogue honeysuckle quells the stink of
Immanuel Baptist and tarp's standing water.

She trusts a profile and upraised brows
My god-daughter; her name is Heaven,
and she believes anything.
Demeanor slipping, my face is cracking,
my throat and tongue are telling,
she sneaks a peek, she wants my hair.
Stick straight, white hair, another odd distraction.

Tranquilized I talk too much,
beginning to babble conspiratorially
to a child of nine.

Heaven Honey, listen to me.
"Trust no one, no I don't.
You have eyes on your back,
use them often and wisely.
Heaven, sweetheart, listen here,
fear is no talisman,
and no better a parent."