That particular summer, what fuss my heart felt
seemed felt by every gorgeous
prairie part: it bore
the sound of cottonwoods hounded by wind and pooled
like the shade in distant hillside clefts, and the grasses
crowding the path I walked told me
to tell myself
that when the field flowered white,
green, and purple with sego lily, sand lily, and prairie star,
the field and I were in love.
Who falls in love with a field? A poet. A
child. Persephone, wending
to a far corner. Me, before
I walked into a field at night
with a married man I thought was my friend.
A married man’s craving
for a woman
who isn’t his wife is an old
story, but I still had yet to learn how it would hurt me
in particular, and therein lay novelty.
child. Persephone, wending
to a far corner. Me, before
I walked into a field at night
with a married man I thought was my friend.
A married man’s craving
for a woman
who isn’t his wife is an old
story, but I still had yet to learn how it would hurt me
in particular, and therein lay novelty.
You are wondering what all of this has to do with motherhood.
That night in the field, all the eggs basketed inside me
lay down with me when I lay down
next to the man who would not
be the father of my daughters, and all
the eggs turned when I turned
from my back to my stomach and bent
the grasses.
The summer air,
the owls, mice, voles, rabbits, spiders, and gnats, the coyotes
that died under cars on the black road, the dogs
lay down with me when I lay down
next to the man who would not
be the father of my daughters, and all
the eggs turned when I turned
from my back to my stomach and bent
the grasses.
The summer air,
the owls, mice, voles, rabbits, spiders, and gnats, the coyotes
that died under cars on the black road, the dogs
and cats, the lilacs and overhanging trees, and my path
through the grasses: I carry them
like daughters. I carried part
of my daughters through them, and the memory
of the field that night keeps twisting
inside me like a virus
because my daughters
were with us,
learning how a woman can be loved
for her choicelessness.
through the grasses: I carry them
like daughters. I carried part
of my daughters through them, and the memory
of the field that night keeps twisting
inside me like a virus
because my daughters
were with us,
learning how a woman can be loved
for her choicelessness.
In the days that followed, my daughters
were with us when he touched me
under the hem of my shirt, on my wrist
where my beaded bracelet turned
and clicked, when he wept, spoke of his wife
and the predicament
of his want.
What did I want?
In my diary from that time
I allowed myself no interiority, no desire
were with us when he touched me
under the hem of my shirt, on my wrist
where my beaded bracelet turned
and clicked, when he wept, spoke of his wife
and the predicament
of his want.
What did I want?
In my diary from that time
I allowed myself no interiority, no desire
or fear. I spent my heart
naming the grasses—Junegrass, bluegrass, needle-and-thread—
instead of writing about walking into them. I told myself
I loved the field because it was too shameful
to admit I’d fallen in love with him
while he was trying to fuck me.
Do you hear the owls?
asked the note that he slid
under my bedroom door one night.
The owlets in a nearby nest shrieked
naming the grasses—Junegrass, bluegrass, needle-and-thread—
instead of writing about walking into them. I told myself
I loved the field because it was too shameful
to admit I’d fallen in love with him
while he was trying to fuck me.
Do you hear the owls?
asked the note that he slid
under my bedroom door one night.
The owlets in a nearby nest shrieked
for their mother. I could hear them from my bed.
This was the moment for me in my romantic nightdress
to open the door and finally say yes
let’s listen together to the owlets, the wind tossing
cottonwood leaves, and the little foxes that drop mouthfuls
of lilies from their teeth to bark
at moths
behind the barn,
but I was beginning to learn that a world
with that much beauty could only exist
This was the moment for me in my romantic nightdress
to open the door and finally say yes
let’s listen together to the owlets, the wind tossing
cottonwood leaves, and the little foxes that drop mouthfuls
of lilies from their teeth to bark
at moths
behind the barn,
but I was beginning to learn that a world
with that much beauty could only exist
in my poetry. It was a beautiful place
where this man had power over me, and I was beginning to see
that it was ugly. As our friendship declined
into torture, the prairie grew hotter. The sun
beat down onto my forehead
like I was a statuette. I still confused passivity
with dignity.
I didn’t blame
the sun: it burned me
because it was on fire. I didn’t blame
where this man had power over me, and I was beginning to see
that it was ugly. As our friendship declined
into torture, the prairie grew hotter. The sun
beat down onto my forehead
like I was a statuette. I still confused passivity
with dignity.
I didn’t blame
the sun: it burned me
because it was on fire. I didn’t blame
the man: he could want me
but not want to leave his wife for me
because he had power.
On a hot afternoon, he and I walked
into the field one last time. Near brushy trees
we heard thrashing, breaking branches, and the chuffing
of a beast.
What makes it hard to say
that I fell in love with this man, or that he fell in love
with me, is what happened next:
but not want to leave his wife for me
because he had power.
On a hot afternoon, he and I walked
into the field one last time. Near brushy trees
we heard thrashing, breaking branches, and the chuffing
of a beast.
What makes it hard to say
that I fell in love with this man, or that he fell in love
with me, is what happened next:
he shoved me toward the animal we couldn’t see and fled
through the salt grass and blue flax. What we’d heard
was a deer, her pelt velvety with fear, her fawns
somewhere near, and once she pounded away and was gone
it would still take more time for me to see
that nobody and nothing in that place,
not the man, not
the field, not even
the sunflower and yarrow, would take care of me
or teach me how to care. It was too beautiful there.
through the salt grass and blue flax. What we’d heard
was a deer, her pelt velvety with fear, her fawns
somewhere near, and once she pounded away and was gone
it would still take more time for me to see
that nobody and nothing in that place,
not the man, not
the field, not even
the sunflower and yarrow, would take care of me
or teach me how to care. It was too beautiful there.
Motherhood would be for me a country
of rage. I live there now,
kicking the shame of what happened to me.
Now I hate the story of how flowers bloom in the girl’s footsteps
and a stranger’s hand around her waist resembles rapture
before the field erases her. What
did she want?
The story never
lets us know Persephone, what hopes
ran through her like glitter
of rage. I live there now,
kicking the shame of what happened to me.
Now I hate the story of how flowers bloom in the girl’s footsteps
and a stranger’s hand around her waist resembles rapture
before the field erases her. What
did she want?
The story never
lets us know Persephone, what hopes
ran through her like glitter
through a stone. This is a poem about motherhood
because now when I think of the field I imagine my daughters are there
with a man who uses their passivity to test
his power. It’s an old story: he rests his head on one
daughter’s shoulder and then on the other daughter’s shoulder.
He is about to make them sad
for a long time. Now
that I’m a mother
I understand Demeter, why she walked the earth
and devastated it.
because now when I think of the field I imagine my daughters are there
with a man who uses their passivity to test
his power. It’s an old story: he rests his head on one
daughter’s shoulder and then on the other daughter’s shoulder.
He is about to make them sad
for a long time. Now
that I’m a mother
I understand Demeter, why she walked the earth
and devastated it.