Grass Cutter (5/29/2020). -M.Weisgerber

Holy God love, I woke to myself and a large hole that now resides, 

stuck all the way below the throat broach, a hiccup following close, lost tunes upon the juke

carved all there by thick blades, or the untangling of those vines that wrapped your trees, the way

its June now - the way you once let me  simply lie there and love you.

Its time for cutting, love, and though you do not enjoy such falls, you

have then to know that its together we lift, together we thrive, together a way I break my mind, its

the haunting now not of manors, or streets or cities whole its, me love

finding all the parts then to jam deep into shuttered eyes.  A waking sleepful time.  

The part of you that I really tried to be, a land of opportunity missed (somehow 'Married Land' failed) somehow sitting on your back porch, sipping tea upon the high dive, fighting

both you and the wasps in a hard way, any way, the summer sliding over, striving fast

to earn the righteous life, the simple stay - a pushing to not let madness win this or any day.

I knew the words that mattered - I was so scared then now then always then to trust you 

(to live in the shadow of that life, a light, a home - any, all)

For a man can carve deep too, he too can hate all the same supple way as you.

Your insides giving way as you push the hard mower, guts, a uterus nigh as you sift through long grass

There is no blood upon the back deck, there's no footsteps in the hall, there's no

shouting from your bedroom, there's no ghost of me anywhere at all.  Failed things.

The one you hated to build, the one that there is carved in sin

the one that got the better part of you and I, the part that dies (died)

camina down below then, ready to catch wide the flame.  

Take it, make it, shake it, burn it, both.  Take my picture, put it where it belongs then on the shelf.

Burry it, carry it, tarry it ho.

The glass is risen, there is no crucifix in your house, there's

no reminder of the past lives, there's your no

journals rotting beside the gulf, there is...  (No bedframe giving way).

Do you let it now get overgrown?  Your mind I mean, the time watches take to show.  

Put that slide grass love maker across the way, a dead man on the lawn, a cutter

fearing all the insects buzz there, trying to think of what dads story suggestion could mean, didn't

contemplate the coming fade days only working hard, the cross didn't come here to save, the man, 

the grass its all the same.

To ensure I don't fold down there along with it - architect fateful who couldn't even build a home.  

  

Its always the worst before the next one (the clippings have a scent, I mean)

I can't think of pears, or your tidy shorts swaying in humid breeze; no songs.  I can't help

but fall again on the way its meant to then, should have been I cant

but simply sit and doodle or therefore fall apart, I think 

of the way you screamed at me when you left the truck, the tow, the dark - no human should endure that

no hatred will ever be as complete as (unless its simply disposing of a child?)  your love maybe

yes there is failing potential on this side, yes still worse than screams, yes worse still than, the man

who cheats still then at life, who knocks the very sanded foundations down, not build.  No fault there

than all the broken promises, yet I took the hammer to do what needed doing.  Myself.

I'm broken now, and though you may read these words and find new ways not to care, they, we

mattered.  We matter still.  I for one will not forget, the hornet stab of light, the

slugs out upon your kitchen door at night, the way I needed you to pray with me. 

A time.  That fresh start.  

Yes the heat rises here and I longingly desire on another carpet fresh, yes I wish

to chance it, yes to claim any passing tick who can feast merrily on what they find there, yes to

wish to close that back shed (the one where I forgot my boombox till you found it), the one

where everything goes to give way - the sweat upon your brow, the dangling fast on fine hairs.  Yes.

I dredge and I dredge and these words are now all I'll ever have except your hate

and when you get desperate enough to make anything grow, even that fertile soil

tastes cold, harbors simple monsters out on the hard snow we both know soon is coming

seems ripe enough to love to want, to break - no hot hate to melt away the lessening day.  

No fruit trees failing there.  Scratching my supple brows when bending.

(No leaves this or any year to rake) 

All I keep thinking is "how long could we have lasted: what really does it all mean?"

That ending brings time closer to you so soon, that

the grass is done the leaves come fall and

I sit and type forever, this a man covered up then in green.   

Sleeping soon, ah yes forever like.  All left to say then is

Adieu.