Self Portrait as a Black Walnut Tree

Mr. George, a white man, a now-deceased man,
a man we moved next door to after the divorce,

he’d leave me and my sister a few dollars allowance
along with a note that said something like, love

your mother, be good to her & I tried, by learning
how to mow the lawn, but this was only after

he waved me down one morning, flailing
his cane like he was rounding up a flock of pigeons,

raising it high in the air as if he could poke holes
in the sky & bless us all—in New Orleans—with rain

because it was so damn hot they’d warned us,
the whole city, to stay inside & protect ourselves

& though we had a couple window units—we
just couldn’t afford to turn them on—, I was

in the shed with Mr. George, then eighty, shuffling
in his boat-sized white New Balance’s, directing me

past sixty years of rusted golf clubs, yards signs & old tools
to pull out the mower that wouldn’t work

till we loosened the grip of the machine’s rust
with my sweat, the motor’s endless teasing of almost

starting, until it did & then he taught me how to mow
the lines—straight and carefully—as I still do today

in the backyard—in Bloomington—with the black walnut
tree tucked in the corner of the yard, it leaves so much

fragrant, tennis ball-sized nut, which looks like a lime
of sorts, but harder & denser, they like to hide in the tall grass

& when I roll over them, they shoot out the machine, spilling
their little brains all over the yard, spreading toxins on the other

species that didn’t evolve allelopathy—a term I can’t pronounce
but I’ve learned, just recently, means self-preservation—,

complicating the relationships they have with their neighbors.