The grass loops long outside my window. Sags into itself. A thousand lithe men bowing
in one direction, a lone sunflower here & there draped over their knees. Little slut.
I forget to cut them down. It is winter now and the sea of green is bright with death
as if begging for the attention of the blade. I can’t afford a lawnmower. Still, I picture
myself pushing a fat hungry thing on the yard, shirtless, a thick beast among snaking
weeds. I’m unsure what to kill out here. What qualifies as weed: nasty useless unflower,
purposeless growth—and anything that isn’t beautiful has no purpose, I’ve heard.
The grass though, if grass it is, has such luscious curls. It tells there is beauty in neglect.
My baby cousins have curly hair, all little Lebs. Some grow out of it. Some are cut down
before they can. The air mows the earth. Sky rake. Cloud gardener. The land lord
is unhappy. This is not Greece, he said. What a shit sea. There is no one here to save
from it. I want the waters to rise higher still, submerge my body. I want to stalk naked
through its soft hands, lone sunflower looking to spread against lengths. To queer this
domestic Eden. A fantasy. There are no persuasive snakes in my yard, just one crabapple
tree bristling with overripe cheeks splotched red, rotten cores. They bob on the sea,
fallen fruit, baby heads. The cold is creeping in. There is no one to save here I whisper
as I go over every inch with my mouth and lovingly tender the green.