Dear Field

by AIDAN FORSTER

 

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.