Somewhere the fields
are burning and I ask
that somewhere else
what it would dream
of if I could get belly
down under the heat
and feel the flames lick
the damaged air
back out of my lungs.
The field would say
nothing and open up
my face like a gate
and walk in without
closing it behind me.
You’ve always stood
outside the cut-line,
son, hands palm up
and I become again
oblivion and breath,
move through you
quick as your mom
left and took flight
over this red field
where what is left
is a man made empty
by you being gone
and further from me
still. All I’ve wanted
is to wipe the blood,
dirt from your feet,
to let this damage in,
come in from fields
and wash your hands
in light that moves
through our bodies
as silent as uprisings
of ash.