Flora Field— A Portfolio of Poetry


At the edges of sound Rubin stands
alone on his rock avoiding triangulation –

I’m afraid the syntax
has broken me

I tell him bliss is only found
in spaces of time that we have

to let go of the desire
to be understood

He yells across to my rock
says what is being

a poet if not the desire
to control that which surrounds us

I cannot answer; the suffering
hills swallow my reaching him

Where the Sun Makes the Wind 

Flora watches the men of the house
saw through tree limbs

She watches this from her window

Flora waits for the tree limbs
to thud against the earth

The tree limbs thud against the earth

In the beginning Flora’s fragility
necessitated a feeling of the thudding

She thought that all endings were untimely

In the end, it was enough for Flora
to hear the wood hit the ground

Bring Me to the Horses

Mother and Flora went to the horses every day
They were exquisite and they were durable and they were ceaseless

Every day Flora placed her cheek in the warm space between the neck and shoulder
She flung her arms up on either side reaching for the withers

Flora scratched and the horses rewarded her devotion
Bending their heads low to wiggle their upper lips against Flora’s small back

With her nose pressed in that space Flora inhaled dust and hay and a bit of soap
The hair was washed and brushed and sun dried and so silky beneath her hands

Flora cleaned the horses more than the other girls
You’ve never seen horses so clean

Everyday Flora closed her eyes and spoke aloud to them
The horses walked on through the hock high yellowed grasses over the round hills

Often Flora cried when the dry grasses crunched and waved and arched beneath their hooves With each step they let out their grunts and loosened their muscles 

Beneath the sun little Flora’s body swayed on the backs of large horses
Mother was there too

It Wasn’t So Bad

I want you to know it wasn’t all bad
like I said, we always sat around the table

There were always the things
that made Flora feel calm

Feel like at the center of a round river
of her own making she could create

a central point by which one anchors
pain, letting it fall down slowly

until it nestles softly in the river muck
where the light can’t reach it