A Benadryl Dose

I'll cut the clover with surgical precision.
I'll suck the sap, venom in your wound,
and make you sterile. You think everything is close
to weeds in the neighborhood subdivision Willow Tree,
this backyard hill of snake skins, crab apples gone
to worms and newts with half-tails.

The most terrifying thing is a wasp's nest
above the front door. You stare at the cones
and see them raising on your skin. We both jump,
hiking our feet to our knees, as we search
for our lost dogs who have wandered
in the unsold lots, wild places
where people take their dogs
to shit so they don't have to pick it up.

An owl hoots and the buffalo farm is long gone--now a tree nursery--
and I say we must end this mad world of mad worlds and make it clean.
You come home and find a snake trapped under the garage door.
After you brush your teeth, you lift your shirt and see
a line of bug bites around your waist. I trace the path
and wonder what is hiding beneath the couch cushions.
You grab your shirt from the back and pull it off in a fit.

In the morning, news of the high pollen count and the possibility
of tax incentives for people with mustaches make you feel dizzy.
We both like the idea of a nap on grass but we
must strike the snake heads with our shovels,
even after they are severed and dead. We must

chase the purple cabbages that run from us,
squeeze the goldfish of their marbles,
take the airplanes to the chipmunks,
chew the eggshells until they silken.

I'll take the muppet from your lips
in a week and let you sleep.
I'll pinprick your heart to know
the dander, the mold of the world,
and leave you stunned in the thunder of spring.