Natural Selection with Bells and Gut String

We choose three lemons with a grapefruit
picker, dropping them whole in sun tea

in a jar on a ledge outside the cellar.
I watch Berta sort buttercups and violets;

flat blooms with no blemishes — souvenirs
to press between books that remind her

of Mom. She knew her long enough to mimic
her peppery gaze, held hands in the kitchen,

Berta leaning her head against Mom’s waist—
that’s how tall she was, even then. I envy her,

a joey latched to the teat in a kangaroo pouch.
Dad plays the gut string guitar, looks up when

I tap the bells on my hem, sees the dandelion
of pulp clumped on my raw palms. In the photo,

Dad sits on a birthing ball, elbows bent,
my curled torso pulled close to his face, matching

gold specks in our brown eyes. Liam is the first
to hear the cooler lid whine, chases Berta

back to camp. Dad hands out ice cream
sandwiches and he gives me mine first.