Field Notes
One by one, the boys
line up at the lip
of the pond, the clearing
in the wood just a few steps
away. I watch their limbs —
browned by, and before,
the sun — pile into the emerald abyss
until each disappears. On the other side
of the green — blades of grass folded
beneath me — I test the range of each
joint, my fingers crackle behind
each pull and twist. I wring myself
into a pain loud enough to numb
my sorrow. How long before they learn —
those boys — to do the same? The preying
mantis, I have read, can fly
but doesn’t; machinery unsuited
for long journeys, opting to glide
towards its destination. Another day,
I am met by the resident cat, another life
hanging helplessly from its jaw.
What coaxes a beast towards
an outcome? In what forge is a target
molded? I fall in love with a different
person each afternoon — some of them
are me; who I wish to become. I still ponder
the distance required for one to chart
the self; how long can I be left in the wild,
alone with the pull of my desire. I jump —
the boys are long gone; no trace
that any of us had been here, save
for the pasture’s greenery bent
into the soil; overtaken,
a trail of dirt
drying in the sun.
***
Author photograph courtesy of Tariq Luthun
