by Lane Fields
I. as the body yields to a knife, so the land cedes to the river— II. my body became the river, wound-wet; gored by grace -ful fingers, subdued; from my chest came a congregation, flurry of white birds; my body ached with its gift— III. I am suspended with thirst for the river, I know all of its names; I speak to it, tender as a lover, & it does the same; it calls me back to the boy I never was, calls me beautiful with its hundred tongues, calls me past the field of forgetting, calls me home. ____
Lane Fields is a queer, trans poet living in Boston and a student of the MFA Program for Writers at Warren Wilson College. Lane’s poetry is forthcoming or has appeared in places such as Hobart, Yemassee, The New Southern Fugitives, and Tupelo Press’s 30/30 Project. You can follow Lane on Instagram at @lane.fields or Twitter at @ohwowitslane.