By Cat Richardson
THE FIELD isn’t a place for decision, except tonight.
The field slows the sky as it slips past. It wants
to stretch the hours, wants to be empty for us.
When I sink my fingers into the dirt, the field
knows it’s done well. I like it when you shake
the grasses for me, like to follow your footprints
and find you at the end, waiting. The field knows
I don’t want to get lost today. Tomorrow, maybe,
is a day for losing. Don’t you think
I know these things? I’m not small anymore.
I know bitter, how it sits in the back of the throat
and shrivels everything around it. I don’t have
room for it today. I have walked out with nothing
and expect you to find me. You need to do it now.
knows it’s done well. I like it when you shake
the grasses for me, like to follow your footprints
and find you at the end, waiting. The field knows
I don’t want to get lost today. Tomorrow, maybe,
is a day for losing. Don’t you think
I know these things? I’m not small anymore.
I know bitter, how it sits in the back of the throat
and shrivels everything around it. I don’t have
room for it today. I have walked out with nothing
and expect you to find me. You need to do it now.
