Mowing the lawn, it’s revealed, is not the torture
it once appeared as the loved one tore through

the yard in heated fury, sluicing beds of flowers
bent dangerously toward the sun and the blades.

The machine was somehow derelict, excused for
its tendency to runnel through precious plantings

due to a lapsed brake he could not repair, his face
in sun murderous blank behind the mirrored eye

sockets. Worse than a chore, a downright war.
To even consider mowing the lawn after seeing

the scathing regard of the sun’s acids run down
his smarting face as he spun the mower around

the yard, why, I figured it would be too hard. Now
that he’s gone, I thought I’d hire someone or forsake

the lawn entire, grow it out like a beard. Mike from
across the road comes over as usual with his advice:

change the oil, the filter, sharpen the blades. Mike
doesn’t want to open old wounds, but it’s been his

suspicion the grass couldn’t thrive because my ex
lowered the mower’s mouth inches above the roots,

scraping sun-hot soil, in an effort to mow less. It’s
not exactly interesting, I’ll admit. That’s why some

people drink while mowing, hoist tumblers of wine
as they sail their yards. It’s strange, how I’ve come

to thrive on the rumble of the rider mower, blades
lowered, love how it clears rough green into fresh

swaths. Flying between apple trees to slash through
hairy bridges of weed, I see Mike. I raise my glass.