Kate Hubbard

The dry spell ended by deluge, my husband
is mowing the lawn again. Through the cross hatch
of the screen door, he’s a kinetic mosaic of man
and push mower. The red Briggs and Stratton,
a Walmart special we’d bought together
for our first home, he’d heaved it off
the highest shelf in the garden department,
buckled it into the backseat, and carried it
over the threshold like our new bride.
To make him laugh, while we put it together
on the living room rug I had named it Murray
Berkowitz and squealed every time he tightened
a bolt. Now we’re showing our age, wheezing
for stabilizer and catching in stump ruts.
I raise my hand, flat palmed in a frozen wave
and mouth, thanks. At this point every gift
is equal parts kindness and betrayal. Yesterday
I had planned to scrub away the gray ring
around the bathtub but barefoot in the backyard
I’d pulled purple clover up against the relentless
tug of gravity and wove a messy crown.
I lied naked in the tall fescue, feeling overgrown
myself, no longer a girl with an easy laugh,
bestowed instead with the lean banquet
of looking good for my age, a little nectar
left before the hard frost.