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What Pleasure, by Lane Fields


Sitting on the stone steps overlooking
the courtyard, the first poet I ever

loved asked me if I had been abused, too.
She said she saw it in my eyes. No one

in my twenty-one years had named the raw
gift of my writing before she did, so

I told her no. Janice squeezed my hand twice
before standing up & walking away.

The grove in the valley of the mountain
shouldered a soft breeze. Everything was warm

because it was summer. We drank boxed wine
on the patio & danced until two.

A poem has to be about something
so let it be about this: my father

did unspeakable things. I am grown now
but still wake with nausea burning my chest,

cold sweat that dapples my temples. I dream
the unbearable weight of his body,

feel it whenever I sit down to write
or hear the wind in the trees. What pleasure
​
will ever belong to me? The mountains,
those Carolina summers, this body— 



NEXT
Lane Fields is a queer, trans poet living in Boston and an MFA candidate at Warren Wilson College. Their poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in Hobart, Yemassee, Interim, Moist, Palette Poetry, and others. You can follow them on Instagram at @lane.fields or Twitter at @ohwowitslane.
  • Home
  • About
    • About
    • SUBMISSION GUIDELINES
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    • MASTHEAD
  • Current Issue
  • SHOP
    • BOOKSTORE
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