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Untended two months in my absence,
our backyards pigweed and razorgrass stood waist high against my weed-eaters murderous blade. I bent, off balance, and scythed tight crescents, mowing with no planthat night Id dream it nicked my shin and hummed into the air bone-dust and blood. The dying plants lay in loose, soft loaves, like sleepers holding close against night fear or wind. She who let them grow, preoccupied with us, house, far dying parentsone remembers childhood German and meadowlark but not his daughters name; the ethereal other recalls what bountiful future waits stood a safe distance behind, her voice wired to the keening edge as gnats and damselflies fluttered from my cuts. Wanting worse while she tied off sheaves, I slanted down to hack and kick up dirt and stone ... This article is available to subscribers and for individual purchaseSubscribe to TNC (Print and Online editions) Subscribe to TNC (Online only) This article originally appeared in The New Criterion, Volume 22 April 2004, on page 54 Copyright © 2008 The New Criterion | www.newcriterion.com http://www.newcriterion.com/articles.cfm/mowers-dipiero-1548
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