The Blade of Grass / by Tyler Wood


She is a blade of grass amongst the forest.

Her eyes like dual sunrise

peek from behind the sheets

as the old man’s hand creaks

open the Elmwood door.

Two cracks in the ceiling let the rain

run in streams to her eyes

as she sweeps the book of Daphne in the drawer.

She tries to stay still, her eyes return to night.

The laurel tree rubs the window. A mosquito

bangs against the glass. The man sits upright

near the hearth in an oak chair

that cracks on the floor boards like a forest fire.

The sound of the room like an empty well, drips

along the walls echo. Her eyes now sunset,

crackling fire heating the old mans hands. Her body tries

to fall through the bed

to burrow in dirt like a worm.

Her heart a hummingbird,

ants whittle her skin into pieces.

He sips cold tea by the surging fire. The shadows blow

across the ceiling, the wood

black but fireflies dance in glowing circles.

He hears the sound of wind over fire,

air sucks the flames up the chimney to release.

There is a candle dying on the bedside drawer,

wind sharpens the blade, extinguishes the candle,

the tall shadow nears the bed. Her roots dig deeper,

and she ascends above the bed

ripping up the floorboards. Her skin thickens,

the ants now lifeless, the hummingbird

leaves. Her eyes daylight

above the wold

she sees a blade of grass

clinging to his sole.