If this field were a person it would be a woman named Sigtuna with a spitting problem.
If this field were an accident it would be a school bus rolling down a roadside ditch.
If this field were a food it would taste like a tomato you should’ve thrown away last week.
If this field were a bird it would be an owl the color of steel.
If this field were a piece of paperwork it would instruct you to burn it after filling out all its little boxes.
If this field were a bathtub it would be the kind you could stretch out in and feel the ornate gold rings of it with your toes as you floated there.
If this field were a memory it would be you chugging a glass of root beer hoping the soda would help your lips, sore from kissing. You didn’t have the intention to heal but to simply delay the discomfort until you stopped making out with Mary Grey.
If this field were a gun it would be pointed at someone who didn’t really matter anyway.
If this field were a poem it would start with “where do these new, skin-thick flowers bloom?”
And it would continue.
But it would end.
