I can learn the wildflowers can see
——————————faces call out
————bindweed firewheel glory brief
———————–& so distinct

each burns I chant them to their end—
——————————but drop brome
————buffalo & switch remain
———————–underfoot

mysteries. How much better versed I’d be
——————————with wings spun
————from sap of grass
———————–where a mama

laid me down to live & where I had to leave
——————————the future along
————their mid-rib. & maybe
———————–I will. Already

I bend into the earth a little more with each
——————————turn. The light
————pets me—shh, shh—
———————–as I go

down. I’m past knowing now or next
——————————so invest
————in the simultaneous: carbon
———————–shuffle re-

bonding as some shape else. -where -when
——————————no matter—
————it’s tough to tell bluegrass but
———————–in sum & from

above. The field I am not. Nor afield
——————————since mid-thigh
————every awn sticks fast dried
———————–carried off

the same. Could I press on with this
——————————arrangement
————if we were acquainted if
———————–I already knew

death’s name

 

 

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Cate Lycurgus is the author of Seacliff (forthcoming Bull City); her work has also appeared in Best American Poetry, American Poetry Review, Ploughshares, Orion, and elsewhere. She lives in San Jose, California, where she conducts interviews for 32 Poems, cocurates the Headwaters Reading Series for Health and Well-being, and teaches.

 

 

 

Image: Elisabeth Jurenka for Unsplash+