"Somehow you manage to cut the grass, push the mower in straight lines ..."

There isn't one, of course, just like there wasn't
one yesterday, but it did get your attention, didn't it:
the thought, no, the fear that ambiguity could slither
into your garden of certainty, overtake the well-pruned hedges,

ruin the carefully prepared paper-thin lamb with scallions
[perhaps too much garlic?], piss from the front porch
of your very average home, and grab some t&a on the way out,
kinda like you against your better judgment, like those

fish-tailed babies that are born sometimes but no one
ever talks about, the ones with gills, and gaping mouths
to remind us where we come from--water, and not garden, death
by drowning, my friend, not death by apple, golden and delicious

thighs spreading before you: the delta, the cradle, the whole
god-damn beginning. Somehow you manage to cut the grass, push
the mower in straight lines across the lawn, push back
the wetlands, the swamps, the bayous with their rotting corpses.

There are no lifeguards on duty; if you swim here,
you must want to die, or be equally certain that you will
go home, turn on the TV, have a drink at the kitchen table,
a Tequila Sunrise, and later that afternoon rake the fallen leaves.

Claudia Grinnell



Claudia K. Grinnell was born and raised in Germany. She now makes her home in Monroe, Louisiana, where she teaches English at Northeast Louisiana University. Her poems have appeared in a variety of online and print publications. You can find more of her work online at The Alsop Review.