Yardwork

Momma would never let me mow the grass,

said I’d run over her hydrangeas, rosemary,

Granny’s old rose bush. Probably run over

rocks, tear up the mower. I’d get into some ants,

they’d eat me up. Really, she just coveted

the time behind that mower, great big raindrops of sweat,

the sun tanning skin deeper brown, freckles that turned

to moles that turned to spots that eventually

had to be cut off. Melanoma, squamous cell carcinoma,

two on her back, two inches, taking root,

one just below her eye, cut down to her cheekbone.

She’s lucky, they say, they caught it so soon.

How is it that the things we love

so often turn malignant in the end?

--by Jessica Sampley, published In SAS Poetry 2023