Evelyn Berry
in the backyard, we slip
off our shirts, lean back
in the hammock.
even before spring
in south carolina,
we’ve slathered ourselves
in cheap sun lotion,
the kind with sparkles.
i scrape glitter
from your skin
with my teeth.
we are feral
together, topless
& gently sun-pinked.
we sink into afternoon’s
warm promise.
summer of the push mower
& the mediocre slash-job
i perform for house owners
on the lower portions of their backyards,
where they cannot spy how i’ve shorn the grass
like a child’s head who forgets to speak back properly
to his father after opening his eyes during prayer.
wreathed in sweat, i march and schlep
the mower, its motor sputtering like skillet grease.
i beseech neighbors for ten dollars
to defile their lawns with rust-baptized blades.
all that’s left behind are dandelions
growing too close to stumps and shallow ditches.
i mourn to raze anything that grows so wild.