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.
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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.
