christopher deweese 


the field

Hours repeat their work.
They bleach the evil blooms,
dust the field in tinder.
If there is a wind
tithing through the corn again,
they make it spirit,
measuring the seasonal reenactment
of how we got here
against the constant wheat.
Like distant trains,
the stars help us move closer
to what tiny faith
lurks within our breathing.
Migration’s old tambourines
wave beneath the singing.
Sitting on the porch,
I’ll believe anything:
that we are better than we are;
that we might find better ways
to want to be.
All winter, this land
becomes a gradual process
that howls in the body,
a frosted, open heart
deadly close to sleeping.
I want to be finished
with all this terrible history;
to find a better skin
in the wild affirmation,
a new tongue
between the missing
and those poor children
who will come from me.
The moon makes a poor decision.
Witches switch to digital
to better measure
its crumpled, plastic light.
“Merry Christmas, witches,”
moan the snowy owls,
and though it isn’t Christmas,
they will soon be right
some day, eventually.