Tonight, you don’t own the grass
and you don’t own the trees;
you don’t make the wind blow,
and you don’t make the stars
drop into my hands.
I’m not going to lean on you
when I take a walk.
Not going to run my mind
along your electric fence.
Nor shall I lie down in green pastures
with you on my mind;
and if I overhear you wanting me,
I’m not listening.
There’s the horizon
and for the first time,
I don’t see you in the distance,
a man like a mountain,
dominating the view.
Like a dart to a board;
like a hand on a sword,
I’ve had to defend
myself against you.
This time, I’m
the hummingbird
and I’m in front of the stalk.
Lisa Low’s essays, reviews, and interviews have appeared in The Massachusetts Review, The Boston Review, and The Adroit Journal. Her poetry has been shortlisted for Ploughshares and is published or forthcoming in many literary journals, among them Hopkins Review, Pleiades, One Art, Conduit, Louisiana Literature, Indianapolis Review and Southern Indiana Review. Her chapbook, Late in the Day, is forthcoming in July 2025 from Seven Kitchens Press.