Watching Grass Grow by Ayla Rogers
A child asks, “what is the grass?” shaking.
It’s a monster, come to eat him alive.
But how pretty to pretend, imagine
It’s a slew of minuscule paint brushes,
Each to rub a different shade of green
Into his mother’s most recent laundry—
Lists of things to warn him of, like monsters—
Real monsters with teeth, clause, and sentences
For crimes, too shameless to bother hiding
Under flower beds and fruits, new growth roots
Out all those fearful things she said, like weeds.
A young man ponders what grass is good for—
It’s an old friend to rustle his blue jeans,
To tickle his cheeks with nostalgic spring
Rain and earthworms that drown themselves alive!
“Alive!” he shouted, and ran far away
From the ground, like a razorblade, cutting
Corners off of pages he read, cutting
Lawns for cash and the illusion of change
Of address, or at least of altitude
To get a better look, he climbed a bit
Higher than he’d been prepared for
An old man wonders, what good is he for?
The grass will finally answer, swallow
Silently it answers, for growing up
And sinking in a plot of fertile land—
Mining, drilling for untapped resources,
And saving some for a better future—
Because everyone’s always known the truth:
Even green lawns bear no edible fruit.
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