The Poetry Kit MAGAZINE


From CITN 2 - May 2001

by Larry L. Fontenot
A man is known
by the lawn he mows,
so I slip into loose jeans
and grass stained walking shoes,
murderer's clothes left over
summer to summer.
I march out, and the grass succumbs
to arrogant whirling blades.
As I walk among the fallen,
I gather strength in the notion
that each stalk will rise,
that each blade is unbowed
though clipped.
It is the duty of grass to survive,
to taunt landowners,
like a growling dog
safe behind fence.
I take the smell of St. Augustine
with me through the back door
into the kitchen where you sit
reading the Saturday paper.
There is a curious mix of aromas
when we meet.
You wrinkle your nose,
say I smell bad,
and I say, "Evil?" and you smile
and we each strip a piece of clothing
from the other's body
until we are down to nothing
but the smell itself,
down to skin where no grass grows,
down to where what fits survives,
where I place my tongue
deep into your ripe
summer heat.