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- Grass
- by
Larry L. Fontenot
-
- A man is known
- by the lawn he
mows,
- so I slip into
loose jeans
- and grass
stained walking shoes,
- murderer's
clothes left over
- summer to
summer.
- I march out,
and the grass succumbs
- to arrogant
whirling blades.
-
- As I walk
among the fallen,
- I gather
strength in the notion
- that each
stalk will rise,
- that each
blade is unbowed
- though
clipped.
- It is the duty
of grass to survive,
- to taunt
landowners,
- like a
growling dog
- safe behind
fence.
-
- I take the
smell of St. Augustine
- with me
through the back door
- into the
kitchen where you sit
- reading the
Saturday paper.
- There is a
curious mix of aromas
- when we meet.
- You wrinkle
your nose,
- say I smell
bad,
- and I say,
"Evil?" and you smile
- and we each
strip a piece of clothing
- from the
other's body
- until we are
down to nothing
- but the smell
itself,
- down to skin
where no grass grows,
- down to where
what fits survives,
- where I place
my tongue
- deep into your
ripe
- summer heat.
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