by Zachary Caballero

The line is everything.
If you want to make
the perfect lawn,
it must be perfectly long.
You’ll need:
a sharp blade,
a worthy roar of an engine,
a gallon of gasoline,
not to be confused
with your heart,
different sparkplug,
your blood, red skinned spud,
the glue, running river of salsa,
otherwise known,
as fuel.

In making the line,
ask, what am I trying to say?
Take your blade,
have your way,
Little chef.
Erase each little blade,
unmake this made place,
break the grass into glass,
thyme, mint, rosemary.
Rip the handkerchiefs
of the lord, like a form of grace.
Sacrament bent to the will
of your blade, elegant dish,
the front lawn should sing
the same way a wish
leaves the mouth
forming a kiss.
Plot twist.
You’re actually writing
a poem into the earth.
Making the ground
less than, together
both your hands
pushing onward,
creation by erasure.
Me, always too busy
escaping into the landscape,
echoes of my legacy,
the soundscape of the past
brushes pass my nose,
fresh cut grass, red salsa,
tortillas sewn and rolled in velvet
language so spicy, we actually
speak in fire.