Fountain Grass

It’s the Eucalyptus that gets me, grounds

me. Takes me down into the dustiness of

this lake. Two minutes from my high school,

ten from home. Where we rented row boats

and sunbathed covered in olive oil. Before

we knew how stupid we were, and doused

our hair with lemon juice, hoping for

highlights on dark brown hair. Where

I skipped rocks with my dad. Had picnics

with the cousins, where the ducks sing

a familiar symphony. Today, a sort of

lullaby. And I cry, wipe tears on clothes

borrowed from my mom. Tears that appear

like the riptide that sliced my ten-year-

old legs. And I surrender. Unconcerned. If

the friends wearing matching Lululemon

leggings or old couple with flannel shirts

and walking sticks think I’m insane. I think

maybe I am. At least a bit. My son calls

and asks how I am, the truth a bit I can say,

gam vay gam I say. But how can I tell him

I am all questions and how can I tell him

fears frighten and how can I tell him the

softness of the Fountain Grass dancing

in the wind sings a divinity so infinite

it hurts.