flower spies me through its periscope after
bumblebee abandons.
i lay upon the grass mattress
                smell
the diatomaceous earth being
tilled beneath by worms in cordial, unfazed shifts.

didn't I place that greenery there? predetermined what its
width and breadth would be in accordance with
the grave I dug for roots to go in,

imagined i could control the seasons, boasted
special fertilizer and city water would subjugate
the plant from dying,
              then
took for granted that it would
             thrive
with absolutely no attention
just the same as I do.


Sara Fielder © June 2022

The vengeful ego sun-bakes as heart
races different scenarios it can latch onto.
A steamy argument ensues with voice of reason ~
the long-suffering protagonist. The sucker.

But on the level, it isn't "fixed",
it's merely tolerated until it finds its way toward
the land of never-forget.


Sara Fielder © June 2022

The bravest thing that you
can ever do is keep
your mouth shut.


Sara Fielder © June 2022

Do not ask for favors lest you are prepared to pay in double.

Favors are nothing more than myths.


Sara Fielder © June 2022

It vibrates before it even begins.
The moping, stony chinned silence.

I anticipate nothing.
I anticipate what I am going to do next.

The void stiffens.
It has a way of causing hysteria.

I am too afraid to ask,
"How did we ever lose our way?"
"How did our love become a contest?"

I am no more than a mattress
on the side of the road, and I know it.



Sara Fielder © May 2022

Something rattles in the soul.
It must be paid attention -
  it is the soul, the only sure thing -
and rattled in return.

Slow begins the dance of tongues and hard news.
I learn a thing I never wished to learn.
Afterwards,
a dance of tongues in the ensuite
begins a sudden rapture of claiming.

Nails mine, skin mine
to make a pink impression on.
Bile in the back of the throat, mine.
Fear of death, mine. Oaths and oaths,
mine, too. An exchange of humility,
knee for a knee. The rigid wall at your back.
The wall at your back.
The night which enriches
bluer out of the blue air,
not the action of
the world moving at all.

The particles of water in a birdbath divide,
decide among themselves
to marry each to each, to reproduce.
They become an ocean.
They drown the birds.
My mouth fills with feathers,
teeth itch with the tiny mites
running between the shafts.

I am a bell, and you are a country.
I am a bell and sound from far away.

Hands touch the broken vase in her parts, the toes,
the eyelash, the sunken wreck, the crowd of dead,
the treasure.
They say
  all this
as if the map was drawn
and burned
and came again
in char from the tablecloth
to all our wonder.

A single miracle can last for weeks in the mouth. Sometimes centuries.

I will spend eighteen days in the void of grace.
What begins as a pain in my shoulders
will grow into a tree and bury me.
I will want promises, promises, promises.
(water, water, water)
I will never be satisfied.

Looking always for permanent loss it becomes easy to simply
misplace.
Your caution leads to strange decisions.
You put your keys in the fridge.

I would like to say I knew the words:
I cut the lock of hair, I drew the blood.
The hex was removed by faith and chaste reflection
but everywhere I look, there is a confusion
of hungry birds and beggars
and I forget the spell,
or what chaste reflection even is.

Anyways, something breaks. Not my doing.
Suddenly, I am just noticing sky again.
I am transcribed back into English.
My first decision is to wash my car,
and next,
to learn what faith meant to anyone.

Charmed, is it?
Something rattles in the soul.
It must be paid attention -
  it is the soul, the only sure thing -
and rattled in return.
It has nothing, really, to say.
It only rattles.

You reread your old poems
to get to know yourself better.


Sara Fielder © May 2022