I am born in a field
of cornflowers and ripe wheat
wind in the black gum trees
late afternoon before the storm
and the men are cutting the field
working the mower in circles
coming in and in
toward the center of the field
where I crouch down
with the rabbits, with the quail
driven into this space by the clackety mower
because I want to see
how the body goes still
how the mind, how the lens of the eye
magnifies to an emptiness
so deep, so flared wide
there is everywhere field and the Source
of field, and only
a quiver of the nose
or the flick of a top-knot feather, a ripple
so faint I may have imagined it, says
yes, says no
to the nearing rustle in the last stand of wheat—
and now it’s quiet, too quiet
a soft trample
a click, the cocking sound, a swish
as the men steal in to take
what they want
they are clever, they are hungry
and because this one body is
my birthplace
my birthright, my only homeplace
my nest and burrow and bower
I understand
my mother is wheat, my father is wind
and I rise in a tall gust
of rage and compassion
I rise up from the mown and edible
debris of the world
wrapped in a bright
net of pollen and stars, my thighs
twin towers of lightning
and my voice
I am a storm of voices, snipe and wolf
snow goose, dolphin, quail, and lark—
Stop this. Stop it now
I say to the men, who stalk closer
keen on the kill, late light
on the steel of their rifles
and they are my brothers—they are my brothers
and I love them, too
Look into my eyes
I tell them. See for yourself the one shining field
Look into my eyes
before you shoot
From One Body (LSU Press, 2007). Copyright © 2007 by Margaret Gibson. Used with the permission of the author.