June

—

I was born in a hospital
in a small town in Ohio
twelve minutes after two
in the afternoon
in a room that smelled like the color gray

no

that is not how it goes

I was born in a field
at the age of five
a field of some nameless golden grain
in the endless golden summer
under the golden sun
of an endless early afternoon

gold is a cold, heavy, dignified metal
but the field, though golden, is warm
and giddy
and floats above the earth like a dream
for the stalks of the nameless grain grow
not from the dirt
but from the vast golden space
between the clouds

when I was five, the stalks grew as high as my knees
but now that I am grown, they brush my waist
which is curious
for in other, more practical fields
the grain is harvested every year
and so cannot attain such prodigious height
and if the field were merely a dream
the grain would grow with me, but no taller
and so remain at the height of my knees

I do not know why
the grain grows so high
it is not very important

I was born in a field at the age of five
and in that field is a tree
and though it looks deciduous, it is really evergreen
for its leaves never fall or change color.
the golden light filters through those kind leaves
and makes dappled glowing shadows
upon my hands
the tree, unlike the grain, has always been the same size
though it is difficult to say what that size is;
whenever I try to count the branches
I find that there are no such things
as numbers

my sister was born in a hospital
in a small town in Ohio
twelve minutes after two
in the afternoon
she was my elder by two years
but she died when she was seven

I cannot remember her
which is curious
for my parents tell me I loved her very much

they also tell me she had golden hair, and that
her name was
June

—

I was born in a field at the age of five