field of vision
I used to hold you up
to lightning
thinking it was home
that you were alive
in the unpredictable
sparks revealed when skin
rubs carpet
static on the floor
but it isn't you
the shock
how clearly I see you now
a storm lights the field
carpet to horizon
an old house surrounded by trees
old woman inside
two dogs
three daughters
her whole life
through the rain
I used to hold you up
to lightning
thinking it was home
that you were alive
in the unpredictable
sparks revealed when skin
rubs carpet
static on the floor
but it isn't you
the shock
how clearly I see you now
a storm lights the field
carpet to horizon
an old house surrounded by trees
old woman inside
two dogs
three daughters
her whole life
through the rain
We cannot be summed up
We are 50 black slugs in a tupperware bowl.
We are a mother's nostrils, monoxide in our lungs and burnt bread.
We are holes in stone walls that others look through.
We are mouthfuls of dirt from dreams — stuffed with corncobs and compost, pine chips and pitchforks.
Turn the soil once more.
We are lives spent in resentment.
We are our father's hated house in the countryside.
We are memories we question.
We are coyotes howling, small talk, a skunk tearing up the lawn for grubs.
We are prayers we ask others to whisper.
We are boiled cabbage and seasoned snails.
We are an elk's old bones on the forest floor.
We catch ourselves staring. It's the rot that draws us in.
We are orchids thrown away before we had a chance to bloom.
We are the crooked line on the road that was supposed to be straight.
We are splattered on the concrete.
We are lessons unto ourselves, the things we tell small children.
We are the biggest brown cow in the pasture, but maybe our eyes are playing tricks on us.
We are faces in paintings, standing out against the details in the background. We are oddly tanned kneecaps.
We are a turret in the valley, a spiral staircase.
We are doors we had no right to slam.
We are too nice to say stop.
We are heavy logs upright in the campfire — burn from the bottom and shine. We are the garden torn apart.
We are the bedroom that was painted.
We are the lovers they once had.
We are yarn-spun, worn-cloth, deadened-tread.
We take little credit for what's gone wrong.
We are apple trees destroyed by blight.
The rain came steadily this season.
We fight off what could ruin us.
We invite in what could ruin us.
We shape ourselves into whatever is necessary.
Don't send us downstream just yet.
We are harbours put to ruin in a storm.
The dock is full of termites floating out to sea.
We are lobsters that escaped the net.
We are chunks of coral floating.
We are scabs we scold one another for picking.
Just let it heal.
We are 50 black slugs in a tupperware bowl.
We are a mother's nostrils, monoxide in our lungs and burnt bread.
We are holes in stone walls that others look through.
We are mouthfuls of dirt from dreams — stuffed with corncobs and compost, pine chips and pitchforks.
Turn the soil once more.
We are lives spent in resentment.
We are our father's hated house in the countryside.
We are memories we question.
We are coyotes howling, small talk, a skunk tearing up the lawn for grubs.
We are prayers we ask others to whisper.
We are boiled cabbage and seasoned snails.
We are an elk's old bones on the forest floor.
We catch ourselves staring. It's the rot that draws us in.
We are orchids thrown away before we had a chance to bloom.
We are the crooked line on the road that was supposed to be straight.
We are splattered on the concrete.
We are lessons unto ourselves, the things we tell small children.
We are the biggest brown cow in the pasture, but maybe our eyes are playing tricks on us.
We are faces in paintings, standing out against the details in the background. We are oddly tanned kneecaps.
We are a turret in the valley, a spiral staircase.
We are doors we had no right to slam.
We are too nice to say stop.
We are heavy logs upright in the campfire — burn from the bottom and shine. We are the garden torn apart.
We are the bedroom that was painted.
We are the lovers they once had.
We are yarn-spun, worn-cloth, deadened-tread.
We take little credit for what's gone wrong.
We are apple trees destroyed by blight.
The rain came steadily this season.
We fight off what could ruin us.
We invite in what could ruin us.
We shape ourselves into whatever is necessary.
Don't send us downstream just yet.
We are harbours put to ruin in a storm.
The dock is full of termites floating out to sea.
We are lobsters that escaped the net.
We are chunks of coral floating.
We are scabs we scold one another for picking.
Just let it heal.
Conyer Clayton has 6 chapbooks, recently Trust Only the Beasts in the Water (above/ground press, 2019). She won The Capilano Review's 2019 Robin Blaser Poetry Prize, and writes reviews for Canthius. Her debut full-length collection of poetry, We Shed Our Skin Like Dynamite, came out May 2020 with Guernica Editions.