B r e t t S h a w —

called to market

there was fence

& break

pushed

through circuiting

of herds

breadth

mixed

my own

hesitations collective

as clouds chained

with strikes

light amidst

the hush

grasses

sough the knee   

whispering

softer softer

what

tugged me

synchronous

to field’s 

boxed edge

world of

slaughter’s

level

& verdigris eye

training

want

to appetites’ reach

a fencing

i’ve been

border to

hard becoming

un-

accustomed

as touch might

hope

to hoove        

to shoulder

turn

to run

against

my containing own

no price

to grass

to sky

shivered

in bruise

won’t hold

hoof

or land

the field

strung

razor

thin

as wire’s   

sharp pass

splits skin

my blood

splayed   

to wing

past metal’s

unending

cull            

twisting

through

the needle’s eye

open air

collects me

in fields

stamped by hooves

my hands

full of stem

& hair

clinging

to what bristles

 Dream of the Body as Last Acre

         after Monica Youn’s, “Interrogation of the Hanged Man”

What is your mouth?

A feel furrowed by coulter’s iron. Fulcrumed plot

of rot(e) repeating. Calling—here, there—a murmur,

a pattern of starlings. Something only a fool follows.

What is your hand?

Oiled gloss. An albatross. Horizon’s first

improvisation. A violence I’ve begun to expect.

What did you hope?

That I’d accept as bluestem accepts

wind’s movement as its own.

What did you hear?

Summer rows: open valve

of velvet undulation. A lullaby of beats

measured. The contempt of silence

that haunts the meek. My birth

among chaff.

What did you wish?

                                     To be good.

No, your wish?

                                               To be taken for harvest.

What do you know?              

The word self a slice. The body

spiraling, a staircase. Bound to descent.

What is here?

Morning glories. How fields left fallow

put bounty to shame. Wolves bend

purple stalks undetected—gray thumbs

testing the blade.

.