Arsenic Lobster poetry journal Issue Forty-three
April 2017
 
The Field
Sarah Blake

I grow a field of wheat in my hands

and make a wind of my breath until


the grain shakes out a sound and I

fly a helicopter low over the wheat


to see if a shape will appear like

a divination. And I fold my hands


together and hold them until they

sweat and itch as if I can turn


the field into a gem, but it was you

all along, coming out, stinking like


summer and America and my skin,

how I once dreamed you'd smell,


my boy, my little boy.

About Sarah Blake

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