Vol 1 No 1 2007
A child said what is the grass
Oh, it’s seed in stitched up bags smelling all green and brown;
the buzzcut of a golf course; rolled turf stacked in the back
of a truck to bypass birth and struggle; lawn that’s blue
as a banjo, feeding slim-legged horses; smooth cover
for a knoll in history; standing waves pressed low in the glades
by hurricane; rye bread and oatmeal; bison food; la puebla’s roots;
and still the beautiful uncut hair of graves we touch tenderly:
so keep off those curling monocotyledonous, mostly herbaceous
jointed stems, honey; don’t hurt those slender sheathing
leaves
or their flowers borne in spikelets of bracts. Come sit in my lap.
Judith Arcana