Make the Cut
by Saydi Anderson
My yard is full of lions,
yellow buds that bleed white,
a layer of snow
in the 90-degree heat. I pay
no heed to my neighbor’s
close-cut lawn or the way
the grass pricks my heels.
Crawling between my toes,
the sharp scent stings. My feet
dance where stems weep.
But I know, I know you
will say we have to let it go,
that to grow we have to cut
ourselves back, trim the edges,
pull the lions from each wedge.
No matter my plea
to let the jungle be, you
see the growth as weeds.
I’ll pull back as you push
the mower through
tall green stalks, severing
my lions’ heads, razor
blades biting blades
of grass, both sides roaring.
Your sweat, my tears, years
of overgrowth that you slice
through inch by inch. I dread
the day you come home.
Until then, I’ll let the lions grow.