I read the note. I crush the fly. I spin the chair. I sit up,

I sit down. I drink the wine. I am crowded with you,

you who sleeps on the floor, puts ketchup on strange things,

who once slapped our hands so hard to the wall I can feel

a knot here, still. There is an art to lingering.

There is nothing in this room except for one girl

and a smudge of black wings. I lie down, I get up.

I put on my best skirt, and no shoes. I drink the wine.

I let the horses out, then wish I had ridden them first.

I walk to the field. Goldenrod flirts along the edges,

monarchs lay their burning wings down: these things

would not impress you. The mower has been by,

his grin of blades, and chopped thistle punches every step.

A hundred yards to the rise where I can see three valleys;

it’s the left one that summons the curve of your back,

the thick of it, rough skin you had me trace with my finger.

Every body has a stretch we cannot see or reach on our own.

This is a design flaw and yet, our need for each other.

Thirty yards more to the spot. The thorns have noticed—

now there is earnest biting, now there will be scratch marks,

now my feet will end up weeping again. I can’t help it, you

know me—this is the only way I ever cross a field.

Sandra Beasley (DC)  works for The American Scholar. Her poetry appears in Bedside Guide to No Tell Motel (Second Story), Best New Poets 2005, Blackbird, Verse Daily, and elsewhere.