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.


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