Dear Field



Before barn

            there was silo:


I learned to work for my space.

            I pulled rain and song


from the earth and ate them

            whole and uncooked,


a small harvest I loved

            until the birds returned.


My grandfather taught me

            that grass was a boy


in a prairie dress. My mother

            handed me a portrait


of a girl dressed in farm tools,

            rain and its blue afterimage.


Together we built the barn and cried

            when the wood ran out.


Together we were antidotes

            of feather and root:


taken best with the sea

            which we dreamed of


but had never seen. In the end

            we slunk into the forest


to sleep. In the end my body

            was a place I visited


but did not belong to:

            a bright green clearing


with a boy in its center, unable

           to touch his own skin.