chainsaw vs the pampas grass
It seemed like an odd pairing. All winter disconnected,
sharpening its teeth in a plastic cover, the chainsaw hung
downward from a hook in the dark room
under the floor hatch. When given oil,
it drank a bit of engine oil
and liquid ran from its joints and threads,
spread across the guide-bar and the maker’s name,
into the dry links.
From the summerhouse, still holding a bit
of last year’s warmth behind its doors, and covered
with the remains of wasps and flies,
wrapped in spider webs...
from there, I followed the bright orange power line
across the lawn and garden path,
let it out like powder from a barrel, then walked
back to the socket and turned it on, then walked again
and connected the saw to the cable – joined them together.
Then released the safety and pulled the trigger.
No warming up or speeding up, just instant anger,
the rush of metal hitting the air, connected to the power.
The chainsaw with its complete disregard, its mood
to get tangled with clothes, or jewelry, or hair.
The chainsaw with its violent desire, its craving
for the flesh of the face and the bones beneath,
its big plan to fight back against nails or knots
and rise up into the brain.
I let it blaze, lifted it into the sun
and felt the rapid beats in its heart,
and felt the drive-wheel gurgle in its throat.
The pampas grass with its ridiculous feathers
and plumes. The pampas grass, soaking up the warmth and light
from cuttings and bulbs, basking in the sun,
stealing attention with its footstools, cushions, and tufts
and its twelve-foot spears.
This was using a sledgehammer to crack a nut.
Probably all that was needed was a good pull or push or a pitchfork to lift it out at its base.
Too much. I touched the blur of the blade
against the nearest tip of a reed – it was gone.
I poked at a stalk that bent, cut a couple of heads,
removed the top third of its canes with a sideways swipe
at shoulder height – this was a game.
I lifted the edge of the undergrowth, cut at the trunk –
plant juice spat from the pipes and tubes
and dust flew out as I tore into pockets of dark, hidden warmth.
To make space to work
I raked whatever was cut or broken or torn
towards the dead area under the outhouse wall, to be burned.
Then cut and raked, cut and raked, until what was left
was a flat stump the size of a barrel lid
that couldn’t be dug with a spade or pried from the earth.
Wanting to finish things off I picked up the saw
and drove it straight down into the upper roots,
but the blade got clogged with soil or tangled with weeds,
or what was cut or split somehow closed and healed behind,
like cutting at water or air with a knife.
I poured barbecue fluid into the patch
and threw in a match – it burned for a minute, smoked
for a minute more, and went out. I left it at that.
In the following weeks new shoots like asparagus tips
sprouted from its base and by June
it was standing tall, wearing a new crown.
Corn in Egypt. I watched
from the upstairs window like the midday moon.
Back downstairs on its hook the chainsaw fumed.
I left it for a year, to work through its artificial dreams, to try to forget.
The endless urge to continue was as far as it got.