The field is as scabbed as the sun, overlapping
Shoulders painted down the nape of road, and
The sky’s swollen spine rippling like the
Scissors women use to birth cows and corn
Stalks, as they have for centuries now. During
The nights, I could hear the pelts of wheat
Swear into the infected air, feel the thickness
Of a blotted moon against my wrists as an
Unreachable floodlight, something that has
Outlived both grandmothers and a sister.
When I told my mom that I don’t ever want to
Be swallowed by that field, her smile seemed
Too easy, like warm rain or a ripening.
She shook her head, said that I would only
Learn that the rest of the earth is no different
From a body or a confession. This was simple:
Every day, going out to feed the cattle and
Watching the wheat fall to crumpled fists. One
Day when the fields dry, maybe I will no longer
Be afraid of becoming a stranger to those I love.