Olatunji Osho-Williams
After a three-day reunion with my childhood home,
my dad recommends I mow the lawn,
and before I pull on shorts and an old band t-shirt,
I connect-the-dots of scars and bumps
grown in barefoot summers,
when my backyard promised answers
What does the moon feel like?
Knees scraping the driveway.
What’s under this log?
Worms, ants, and a splinter.
Should I drink from the hose?
If you water the yard, the grass will grow faster.
I push the lawnmower by
the corner in my garden
that reeks of basil and bad decisions,
and I remember warmer afternoons
when the air would squeal with heat
and I’d run to the hose before I’d run inside,
and drink like a madman.
Should I drink from the hose?
Pollen bursts over pockmarked legs
and I pass by the rotten boards
sunken in the shed floor
rabbits call home,
thinking of the times I baked
freeze-dried carrots al dente in the August heat
I sweat and bend
in and around the fence posts I used as goals, the tree stump I used to pick apples from,
the ditch that twisted an ankle,
and shut off the lawnmower at the pavement.
Should I drink from the hose?
The sun is high when I grip the nozzle
and the hose swells,
with a promise to
pull scabs from memories
lost in the tall grass,
ready to release me,
and I let myself go
down the years I left
underneath flipped logs
and pull the nozzle closer
letting the moment run down my chin
and soak the ground below.
Olatunji Osho-Williams is a sophomore studying Journalism, International Studies, and Spanish. He enjoys orange juice with espresso, and is a lover of all things fantasy and sci-fi.
