Road to Heaven

It was the time that we buried the car
in the backyard: the blood dried a dark
maroon on the front seat, the glass
shattered, pieces still everywhere. The
younger one had hauled it back from
the station. This one deserved a decent
burial. On breezy monsoon afternoons,
he would sit on the grass and play his
guitar. Songs they used to know together.
He only sang his part. Everything else
rustled during the silent verse. Sometimes
it rained, never breaking the rhythm.
Strings and water. And bottle after
bottle. Till it flooded the inside and the
blood was no longer dark and the glass
stopped shattering with that noise like
ancient ice. It was the time the car sprouted,
first a tiny leaf, then stronger, taller,
harder, little smashed-up cars on its
boughs, each one with that blackening
stain, the windows crushed, the rain
leaping from one to the next, one to
the next, never breaking the rhythm.
And bottle after bottle. Till the flood
inside spilt out, an endless deluge,
watering roots and grass and car-seed,
the older one finding a road to heaven.