Mowing grass

part of the National Poetry Month 2020 series

The grass grows, doesn't it? All by itself.
Doesn't even complain when it gets cut —
like at a barber, Ma used to say. But it's
not like a barber at all is it? It's more —
more of a mass murder, all those individual
grasses decapitated, tossed up, landing
on their comrades' corpses. It's more like fish
trawled in giant nets. Chickens' necks slit
by the dozens on the killing floor. Fields
run red with blood. Choppers grazing overhead.
The sky a piercing blue, like a vein
waiting to be opened. An ocean, death 
seething out, a tide that refuses to abate.