ART BY ELSA SCHUTT

that grass goes on forever, he says, finally.

I-75 is a lonely line across
the endless plain of flooded sawgrass, cypress strands dotting
the rippling expanse of level green. the grasses sway and flow under
the bleeding blue sky, hanging static over their undulating blades,
their razor edges indiscernible
in the distance. they brush and flatten, reach and rise, whispering
imperceptible words, almost inviting—forever.

i wish i could get lost in it, i reply.

forever. what could he know about forever?
i assume about as much as the
billboards, promising eternal damnation, or heaven.
the only two things people promise forever:

love and hellfire—
in neither of which i fully believe.

in the baking Florida heat, the air itself is visible.
the flatness is maddening—under such a stifling atmosphere,
the world seems impossibly big. too opaque. the grasses, though,
blaring with the cries of cicadas, scream void.

i heard the crash happened around here, he continues.

at the thought of it, my heart races—speeding
fast enough to panic, to send someone
flying through a windshield. to shatter a mind.

i grow small. cracks open in my gut, leaving room for the grass
to find its way into my core, creeping silent and angry.
too angry, even for goodbye.
i miss him, i offer.

it’s a little late for that, he deflects, his eyes hardening.
he’s right, and i know it. the roots dig further into my stomach.

i could be convinced that guilt
is a sort of damning, either swallowed or squashed,
enveloping you from the outside or eating you hot
from within. i think guilt may never fully leave the body,

like shrapnel,
or DDT.

i just wonder if it ever goes away, i try again.
i’m so tired of trying to figure out what to do with myself after.

if there ever is an after. or maybe it’s just this. the after.
the third, or maybe the only, forever.

the humming of the wind on the barriers reveals he’s gone quiet.
his silence gives me too much room to think.

if you walk the wrong way in sawgrass, it’ll cut you to the bone.
when they found the body, it was sliced to bits. indeed,
even getting him out was a challenge—the field, too,
seemed eager to hold on.

i’ve come to know grief
is fairly simple—sawgrass is the same. once you’re in,
you can only go forward.
bending this way and that, the grasses make the decision for you:
either you come out on the other side, or you’re swallowed, whole.
stalks of green intermingling with cattails replace the blue of the sky—
in a way, wading in means
no going back.

unable to look at him anymore,
i stare out one more time at the impenetrable marsh,
the otherwise gleaming horizon interrupted only
by the dark border of the unbending road.

take me home, i ask.

the grasses sway in so many directions
i’m not sure which way to go—
i just know i won’t leave

without bleeding.