Something in the field is working away. Root-noise. Twig-noise. Plant of weak chlorophyll, no name for it. Something in the field has mastered distance by living too close to fences. Yellow fruit, has it pit or seeds? Stalk of wither. Grass- noise fighting weed-noise. Dirt and chant. Something in the field. Coreopsis. I did not mean to say that. Yellow petal, has it wither-gift? Has it gorgeous rash? Leaf-loss and worried sprout, its bursting art. Some- thing in the. Field fallowed and cicada. I did not mean to say. Has it roar and bloom? Has it road to follow? A thistle prick, fraught burrs, such easy attachment. Stem- and stamen-noise. Can I lime- flower? Can I chamomile? Something in the field cannot.
It was inside, gathering heat in her blood, slowly killing her.
No one said a word.
And this grew her fury further, grieved her immeasurably.
What did it look like.
A knot, or a slag of granite.
I imagined another brother, unborn for he was only a knot.
How my granite brother would never leave her.
I grew up in her abject sadness, which soon became our speaking.
And then I left.
Smaller, smaller, he was her favorite.
Jays nag the first light.
And now I am awake before dawn hoping today is a day when I won’t have to say anything.
And then I.
To me, it was unintelligible.
I could see through her skin, see my brother not growing inside her.
Would he ever come outside.
The raging jays, the squawking catastrophe.
I wanted to know.
What is the difference between a son and a daughter, I wanted to know.
That is private.
That was her answer.