I hate mowing in autumn. I know, 
I remember, my mother told me 
that hate is a strong word 

like love. But I do, 
as I watch an exodus of crickets 
leaping in waves away 

from the blades. I know some 
succumb to those whirling knives, 
and I feel like a vengeful god, 

a powerful word. 
Some nights, I can’t sleep 
for their lusty stridulation. 

They chide me my murderous chores, 
even though I leave them 
wands of grass and coils of ivy 

along the fence. They can’t know 
how much I despise the growling motor, 
the wishy-washy weather, 

the untold death, which can be a word 
of blessing or an utterance of tragedy. 
If only they would stay low, 

stay hidden where roots and earth tangle, 
hold onto each other for 
dear life, which is a promise 

I still don’t understand. 
I should let the lawn go to seed, 
accept the fines, while I sit inside 

and mourn. Mourn is a word that flows 
through the body, a toxin 
like worry, for which there is no healing. 

David B. Prather

is the author of We Were Birds (Main Street Rag Publishing, 2019), and has two poetry collections forthcoming: Bending Light with Bare Hands (Fernwood Press), and Shouting at an Empty House (Sheila-Na-Gig Editions). His work has appeared in many publications, including Prairie Schooner, Poet Lore, Potomac Review, Comstock Review, Sheila-Na-Gig, and others. He lives in Parkersburg, WV.

More on the Web: By, About, and Beyond

⚡ Two Poems by David B. Prather in River Heron Review (Issue 3.1, February 2020): “To Haunt America” and “Contrapuntal”

⚡ Two Poems by Prather in Still: The Journal (Issue 37, Fall 2021): “If a Tree Falls in the Forest” and “Humidity”