The Field

I remember an elephant we saw in the zoo, rocking back and forth,

in place, stomping the earth, a dance of constant motion, from starving

of freedom. Dad used to say if you ever feel a little stir crazy like that,

just go out to the field behind our place and rock there, and leave

the rest of us alone until you are done. I go into the field, yellow

stalks of old grasses, sharp and burred, with crumbled granite

rocks under thin-soled shoes, bees and grasshoppers jettison arched

across the ground. The field is all I know besides the house. I like

walking through the tawny stalks like a lion, but don’t know how

to gauge the reality of empty. Dad is outside, pulling out the ivy

from the wall, and huge spiders crawl out, big as plates. I run inside.

I want to be accepted. I sit on the sofa, wait for the cartoons, pop

tarts in the toaster. I wanted the bussing job at the corner diner,

but didn’t get it, but pretended to get it, and my lack spilled

out like spiders all over the table. Why did I have to understand,

to fit in, why even when my dad is dying, pulling weeds to stave off

that truth, can he be cruel? How could he tell me what I was unable

to know? I rock in small swerves, like the elephant. Go to the field, he says.

___

LYNN FINGER's works have appeared in 8Poems, Fairy Piece, Drunk Monkeys, and ONE ART: a journal of poetry, and others. Lynn also released a poetry chapbook, “The Truth of Blue Horses,” by Alien Buddha Press. Lynn edits Harpy Hybrid Review. Her Twitter is @sweetfirefly2