by Jessica Rigney
You’ve been in the fields again, he says yes
he says, the seeds of the grass are all over
you. Yes, she says, and opening like the field
opens like a woman opening her legs. She
could see her hand stretched across a loaf
of bread, tendons taut. The other hand
slicing in the vigorous way a plow moves
through tough earth forcing a split, a
movement which brings the field to
its knees. I won’t lie to you, she tells him.
It is all I can do not to keep walking in.
Let’s make a meal together, she had said.
Her eyes full of a want you’d forgotten. Partly
a child she was and so you put your arms
around her shoulders, gave yourself to her
in the way which told her, you are here and
it is alright. Though you’d seen yourself placing
your mouth on the pout of her mouth and
all the life in her, could sense how it would
open. Don’t leave she had said. Now
that we know. You can’t say what it is
can you? He asks. He says, I know.
Stalks of grass she grabbed roughly before
running back to the road, the feel of
the seed-heads in her hands, their
voluptuous soft roundnesses running full
lengths of hands at the tops of stems, just as
she imagined her small toes in her hands
her mouth behind a tender knee. No, I can’t
say how it is the entire sky in my mouth, a
cloud draining from my eyes, my dear. It’s
how the ground begs me drop to my hands
and knees, begs me spread my thighs for
ripe grasses undulating in a hot wind. How
I cannot stop myself from lowing, from
the spread of my chest from, shoulder blades
squeezed against one another, her delicate
breasts. I am found you see, she says. Found
full when I yield. Found in a field as if I knew
no other home.