The Lawn Mower

When we finally flip it over   
the fireflies are out. The neighbor boy   
has had his stitches in so I can finally admit   
I think it is all fantastic: the suck   
of the spark plug undone, the stuck blade   
bent into the guard, and the sound   
of the hammer’s head reshaping the metal.   
In this our suburban Eden we’ve only   
a teenage Adam too dreamy to manage   
his motorized scythe and silly Eve leaving   
her coffee cups and plastic plant pots   
behind in the grass. Though it’s a long way   
from a fall, this spring’s first disaster,   
I did like the thin thread of red   
on his upper lip, and I like my mower   
turned over among the glowworms,   
a monstrous dandelion as unnatural as we   
are, out in a garden, with our untidy   
golds and our dangerous sharps.

More Poems by Sarah Barber