I love you like the lawnmower
loves the grass. The less
I see of you,
the better off I am.
You look beautiful but
I know about the dirt
you harbor. I loved
you like a singing bird,
happily perched. Your response
was…nothing. Can’t you
hear me? Please talk
to me, I begged
you. You move
silently, before you turn
away. So—I’m mowing
my lawn, sweating
a bit, and decide the shrubs
still need trimming too. I’ll need
my clippers, brand new,
hardware-store-approved
and shiny, probably in
anticipation of clipping
a few hearts.
I head to the shed.
When I open the door
I see pink ribbons
and a box of chocolate
where I usually lay the clips.
At this point I can
no longer stand it. I try
to slam the shed door shut
but apparently it’s on some
kind of pneumatic device
that will not let it shut.
From behind the shed
comes a line of male
dancers nattily attired,
1920s style. They’re singing
He loves you, he loves you
not as they pluck off
the respective petals
on the daisies! Once
again, I am caught
between a rock (the one
on my hand) and a hard
place (mostly in my mind). That’s
because when someone
changes the rules capriciously
and at whim, over and over, you
have no choice but to let
your mind slip through
the cracks. It’s simpler
that way. Did I tell you
I was a fool for love?
Copyright. Heidi Hermanson.
Heidi Hermanson is a first-generation Nebraskan. Upon finding herself with an abundance of time due to covid-19, she is documenting and photographing nearby rivers and cemeteries. A recipient of both the Nebraska Book Award and the Arts Council Fellowship. she organized the first Poets' Chautauqua at the State Fair, aspires to found a library of towns that no longer exist, and learn dialects of the 17-year cicada. Her books are Waking to the Dream (Stephen Austin University Press, 2018) and Cocktails with God (forthcoming from Finishing Line Press). She received her MFA from the University of Nebraska at Omaha in 2008.
