POETRY BY ROBIN GOW

THE LAST LAWN IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

Station wagon-ed families and flocks of motorcycles.

Tin-can rattling Oldsmobiles and school buses.

We all come to see. It is the opening weekend.

On the drive there, we talk about water

and where we will drink from tomorrow.

We say, “We need a new president.”

We name bombs after women. Bertha detonates

and even where we are, the sky vibrates yellow.

No parking at all, we walk for several miles to reach it

Paying at the ticket booth, the guard explains the rules.

“You can touch but you cannot lie down.”

So, we imagine lying down. We hadn’t before.

How cool the blades would feel pressing against our backs.

The sky, turned into a crystal punch bowl.

Flexing my fingers to prepare. And I see it.

It glows like a fence. Sprawled between the house

and the asphalt road. We want to know what it felt like

to walk out a front door into comfort. If the mailboxes

burst with butterflies when they opened them.

Children whose bare feet bore no scars.

Their laughter haunts the air.

A single file line. Going to touch the lawn

one at a time. Long ago, we buried our religion

in the ground beneath the swing-set garden

but here we each want to pray. Give thanks for smell and touch.

The grass, softer than we thought. Each tended stem.

We linger longer than we should. Inhale. Resist the urge

to tear out a handful to keep. The ushers say, “Time is up.”

The lawn before us. The ghosts’ barbeques.

Not jealous. Not anymore. Just pure and wild yearning.