Listen to this poem
Wheat Field Under Threatening Skies by AutumnKonopka
She wants to be a blade of grass.
She wants to be more
than a blade of grass,
parched and blonde,
a thin strand of hair
among the other strands
tucked behind the ear of the field.
She’d rather be the field.
But more. More
than the entire fleshy field. More
than the tips of its fingers,
the pads of its sleeping feet.
She wants to be the path
that bends through the field
like the space between legs.
But not this dirt path,
so soft underfoot, tire tracks
like stretch marks,
ostentatious as a parade
along the inner thigh.
She wants to be the cobalt sky.
No, she doesn’t want to be sky—
ubiquitous, mercurial sky—
of oily clouds and grim demeanor.
She wants to be the crow,
splintering out of its black background.
Not the entire flock of crows,
breaking like spider veins
across the legs
of field and sky.
One crow.
A singular crack in the smudgy bruise of moon.
