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.