Glazed Case by Rebecca Hazelton

Dear husbands you hardly know how to set the green
growing you hardly know the vine and its tremors
the whispers of plants are a subtext I mean subterranean
I mean a terrarium is a larger world made small
and manageable if light if soil if the ratio of wet
to dry is a golden afternoon and the way a husband
lies down for a moment in the grass the sun spilling
across his thinning hair the shirt open his eyes closed
then dear husbands lust is easy and life is a seed
in a Styrofoam egg crate if we are patient
two green paddles split the soil’s dark waters
if we are patient the husband will rise again to finish
mowing the lawn he will not leap over the fence
in one graceful vault looking for a moment dear husbands
like something unaccountable to a closed system
Rebecca Hazelton is the author of Fair Copy, winner of the 2011 Ohio State University Press / The Journal Award in Poetry, and Vow, from Cleveland State University Press. She was the 2010-11 Jay C. and Ruth Halls Poetry Fellow at the University of Wisconsin, Madison Creative Writing Institute and winner of the “Discovery” / Boston Review 2012 Poetry Contest. Her poems have appeared in AGNI, The Southern Review, Boston Review, Best New Poets 2011, and Best American Poetry 2013.