The Field
A poem from the spring of 2024
Things I’ve been thinking about lately, in no particular order (allegedly):
The family secret
My grandmother’s liver
(Alcoholism. Not genes.)
Because of course it was alcoholism, a submerged family tree
That would’ve been good to know, I think sometimes, bitterly, like I’d been robbed of something
But I know it wouldn’t have mattered
I still would’ve ended up at the bottom of the pool
Fingertips brushing the silver mirror, hair strands coated in someone else’s puke, my thigh blood, vape juice
Forgiveness & hot summer days
I start off at my grandmother’s farm
Cicadas and fifteen caterpillar mansions
Couldn’t get enough of them
Crawling and writhing, furry lil buddies
Buckets of worms, collected while donning a princess tiara
A well-fed frog
Butterfly suicide. Chlorine. Leopard print denial.
I find myself in the tall grass
Carrying clam shells in my clammy palm
A rock for ponderings & regrets
Gravestone for a spine
I remember the sunlight—I remember the way it moved in waves, an ocean, feelings that didn’t belong to me. Stolen things, beautiful things, the wound and the knife the knife and wound the wound the wound the knife the knife—
Which one was I again?
I end up in the wide-open field the psychic prophesied
The one with everything written & unwritten
Schrödinger’s titties
The one with the wild, idealized masculine—a huge cock filled with esoteric wisdom
The one with the blood & cum (allegedly)
The vastness of a night sky full of stars, exploding nebulas and sneaky golden threads
Forgiveness & how to be quiet
“God grant me the serenity…”
Synchronicities & dancing, the way my hair looks underwater. Silk and smoke.
Forgiveness & how to speak
Dirt sorcery
“Magick is falling in love with the Field.”
The excitement of life imitating art & art imitating life, the way the threads spin me around, tie me up, guide me, heal me, fuck me, a tongue following tear streaks and the flutter of eyelashes—the way the light catches them, tiny shadows and tiny shivers. I shudder. I laugh. I am crying but I see.
I throw my character defects into the Ohio river
My sponsor and I decide that the goose that swims into the line of fire is God aiding me in my quest
We try not to stone God
The rock I keep says, hopeful
I whinge & suffer artfully, damn poetically
No one has ever been stabbed deeper than I
Goose God says to shut up and repeat the Sick Man’s Prayer
Until I’m helpful again. Useful, of service again.
What is existence if not a responsibility?
Back in the field. Falling in love with moonlit cords and melting chocolate pleasure, orgasms at the intersection of dirt & stars. I want it all. But I will accept my sliver—the width of an eyelash, the space between the bottom of that pool and the arch of my spine.
Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.
A Note to Subscribers: This marks a shift in the energy and focus of my Substack, as I move into greater authenticity & artistic vulnerability. Excited to see where we end up. <3
Also, I made it to New York! Currently in a long-term airbnb while I apartment hunt for March. Soaking up so many new connections & beauty. More to come…
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