A meadow of horse ears,
twisting in the wind.
Spruce tips coaxed
fragrant. Salt and pepper
shakers in the shape
of prey. Vessels to catch
God’s fear. Suspended
in oil, my hormones—
skipped again this week.
In the field, I’m apparent
and dangerous, nothing else.
An owl strikes the long grass
to grasp the mouse beneath.
I wait for any feeling
to grab me. The sun unfolds
ice. The meadow peels
off daylight. Like a mask.
I am reminded of what I am not
becoming.