May Advances by Sally Ball
Children shriek and laugh and skid their bikes
in every driveway--their best rides are for the sake
of motion only, turns and bumping over cracks.
The lawns grow emerald under sprinklers: our new
delirious obsession. At least mine, maybe since
I'm moving in one month, too soon to harvest anythingso I will leave at least this tuft of green. I regret
the need to mow. I want my handiwork to run amuck:
such luxuriance, the plush, inviting green.
The power to turn this plot into a pillow
onto which to lay my love, to say, I know
I've said we can go anywhere--Take me here beside the iris leaves,
the azalea's tiny buds. I am
all yours and fertile like the very ground
that holds this house. High talk,
though only high can we admit
our love of risk--or admit such loveas argument in favor of rash action.
Spring plays its promise-tricks, as if a love of beauty
yields a good idea, a likeness to the tantalizing
object--as if the object wanted us to be like it.
What does the new grass say to you?
When you lie in it, are you thinking of my body?
