The Field
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I am dreaming of the caustic smoke of the father behind the father.
There is a pear on the table in unfathomable light.

You are not safe in your white dress.
What is all this nonsense about vision?

Do you think self-abuse is noble?
That the field of a thousand breasts can bring the world to focus?

When my father hung himself in the bathroom,
his feet swelled like the heads of crowning infants.

Fire heralded across the field, all hiss and pantomime.
Years ago, I got up and walked away.

Everything burns, the outstretched hand, memory, the dress?
Here, console yourself, look back and tell.