After the Argument the Grass Moves

The feather reed grass is fountaining
near the freshly-mowed front lawn, the drought

has ended for now and the fescue is green
again, the pesky crab grass is green again

and splits into wiry tendrils in inopportune
places. Though we never do, or rather, it's rare,

(the flagrant indigo bunting spotted, black
widow in the cable box caught), we fought

last night. Me in the guest room crying
because I had hurt your feelings, the ones

I am so intricately attached to and, when
in my right mind, would plant and water

and sun in all the ways that make a thing
grow. Would you opt to be the one hurt or

the one that does the hurting? A wind
shakes the cascading grass now so it looks

as if there's a frantic animal inside of it.
I can imagine its sharp teeth, filthy claws,

a kind of trapped agony inside the matted
coat. I think this is what it looks like when

a nastiness takes over for no reason, when
the only cage that is holding me is my own.

But of course there is no desperate animal
stuck in the high grass, no animal at all,

that too was what I brought into this world,
rabid and always on my side, so only I can kill it.