The field lies like a still lake, an opaque film
of silver or green—water or soil, apathy or
memory—obscuring the mayhem underneath
A tenebrous home once floated here. Inside:
chrysalis, pupa, larvae, whatever
I left those costumes in closets to mold over years ago.
But, then again, my home was never on the ground. Shh.
The trees drowse; their boughs rake the ground now,
remembering the press of sneakers in their moldy
crooks. Do I hear Father’s stale breath, the wheeze
of counted gates opening, the inhale of the afghan
mother comforted me with. Do I hear the things hidden
in the soil? They, unlike I, achieved their wishful plan
to stand still. The truth is I would never forget them;
I brought them more memories packed in boxes
from a different land. Kneeling, I dig in the soil, disturbing
the swimming creatures underneath, sprinkle the gypsum seeds.
My calloused hands cover them, then play the guessing game
Perhaps something will take root now— baseboards, an oaken
table, a window shutter gripping the numbers of an address.
I am a season wandering away, knowing
the exact date of my return.
Early draft. Constructive criticism welcome. What, if any, message did you get from it? What were you confused by? Did you listen to the song? How did it relate back for you?