Arsenic Lobster poetry journal |
Issue Forty-three April 2017 |
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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. |
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