the lawn

by Emma Lindsay

skin becomes grass becomes -

look at your hands, sing

breeze in my hair, - I forget
no nothing, just green
               warm pastures
              warm foothills
sun on my face
and figure-

fingertips of each cell
are blades of grass
are guessing
are shedding, mulching
and trying to shed something- like cut grass

there is this sweet succulence inside every green follicle finger
reaching for the sun         like me
waking up to the earth-sky-tree-sky
and spreading like the walnut tree

how much weight can the breeze take?
                   , only
fingertips and a lively carpet of green
feeling the hair on my legs
feeling the blades of grass
feeling the grass on my legs
feeling the h-air

there it is, where I lay

small body-being, being beside me
which-where limb most wants
to feel this tug of life and gravity?

I cannot
I cannot get over this
tender plant, gently reaching
soft, green and vivacious
vibrant and in multitudes
vigorous like a child

over there and beside me.