Topography
by E. Kristin Anderson
We are in the market for a lawnmower;
the yard has become overgrown since
winter thawed, leaving behind the truth
about our new home: previous tenants
let weeds grow rampant.
The grass has died,
leaving thistles to snatch at my ankles.
Inside I pull seed pods from my clothes,
pile them on the coffee table, and count.
I am outnumbered.
I want to burn the lawn, watch the beetles
rush under the fence, touch the soil fresh
beneath the ash, and start again. Here
we will plant the grass to grow soft
beneath our feet.

