the gossip of grass 

i would bury dad's microphones 
when he was at work. holding them up
by the chords like captured fish,
they'd wriggle as i descended the stairs
from the attic. up there we had all dad's
music equipment: the drums, the speakers,
all kinds of amps & sound machines
& yes the microphones. i want to listen 
to the words of plants. on myth busters 
the night before they had tried to make
a fern talk. dad thought this was ridiculous
but i watched intently wondering 
if it might say something hushed
on the audio recording. i thought
about all the plants that i had killed 
on the windowsill of my room & wondered
what they would have to say to me.
all night i stayed up imagining their words
circling me like moths. i had one potted
african violet & i leaned down close,
pressing my ear to face of the flower.
nothing. it didn't trust me. 
i had to hear them. i resolved that
of all plants the grass must be 
the most talkative in these parts 
though in the rain forest it might be
a type of vines of moss. before leaving 
the attic i spoke into the microphone
just to hear the wild strangeness of my own
voice. it's so cruel that 
our voices sound different in our heads.
i tried to speak my voice lower 
& more steady but it just wavered more
in the speakers so i gave up.
i wondered if my voice had plants
inside it. maybe a spider plant
or a succulent. maybe somewhere 
my voice was finding a bowl of dirt
to sleep in. the grass was 
loud. a crowded room. aloud in the yard
with the speaker hooked up 
i listened. voice over voice over voice.
i spoke loud & clear saying 
this is a person but none of them 
stopped their chatter. i leaned in closer
& said i'm sorry for stepping on you
each day & the grass grumbled like a herd
of grandfathers. i stood up. the voices
never became clearer. still a muck 
of sound & i felt more lonely
than ever. all these small mouths 
making slipper language & there i was
a giant. bare foot. dirt under my nails.
i hadn't spoken to anyone all day 
besides the grass who wouldn't talk back.
i pulled the microphone out of the soil 
& brushed off the mesh steal head.
taking the equipment back upstairs 
i wondered if once i stopped listening 
the grass began to talk normally again,
if maybe they were just tricking me.
alone i sat on the floor of the attic,
using the microphone to practice my voice.
my voice loud & crisp & filling 
the skeleton of the house.