When I step toward this

I hear a hatchet

hatcheting—

crack (pause) crack (pause)

crack—

and lemonade spurts

from a trunk weirdly

where we’d felt

something else might

ooze.

Metallic taste of lilac

lacing the air,

lips dusted with

pheromones,

gums tingling,

and a kind of

fruit-sense

matting the grass.

At the picnic

there’s a chair

we make Uncle

sit in, although he

does not want to.

And as I step

toward this,

your painting,

I’m met with

EYES,

a gentle buzz

in the earth,

smell of clipped mint,

sound of mowers

gagging lazily on

wet wads,

and a late snake

making her way

unharmed in the grass

I have mentioned.

At the picnic is a chair

in which Uncle sits,

cracking a cold one,

his interest in tomorrow.