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DREAM OF THE FISHERMAN'S WIFE
miranda field




In the middle of the month Iím ravenous, at either end I hate to say Iím
    only sleepy.

My body is aggressively telling me many people need to pass through me, as if
    Iím a helical chute in a playground.

Itís not my fault what happens when they come out the other end.

When the moon wanes, asleep, I prepare for my middle-of-the-dark-woods
     waking dreams, stranger by far than my seashore walks.

For example, my uterus shows through my outer form—cone-shaped, I lie like
     malt on a barn floor poured in a heap from a hopper.

And I am assigned a heroic task: turn the boys in the room into honey
     by morning.

Itís winter, snow covers my flowers, hot as asphalt in summer.

Iíve found my way back to nature, to where I was born, where I was meant
     to be, where I can breathe, where glistening transparent pearls on
     microscopic stalks extend from hundreds of open throats, where when you
     want and want, instead of yellow cabs, itís hummingbirds you fail to find.

Iím braiding my husbandís DNA, his flexible fingers, tongue, tentacles, etc.,
     while he braids mine, an infinite repetition of intertwining actions in
     the floating-world mirror.

Rain on the roof rattles off endless algorithms for generating happiness.

In the gutter I find a long-ago ball I threw (blue with red ladybugs) and throw it
     harder—deep into a no-longer loved Rilke poem. Iím dressed in petticoats,
     and my erection is irritated by layers of stiff French lace.

My individuality is absorbed into the anonymity of organic detritus falling
     from the upper, sunlit layers to the lower, darker—a blizzard of aggregates
     of smaller particles held together by a sugary mucus forming one colossal
     column in the abyssal dark.

Slowly I become my own octopus-husband.

Thereís a margin where ocean-consciousness is divided from dry land.

Monthly, my status as creation-pinnacle is burnished by Darwinís thesis that
     humans evolved from lower life forms.

Iím listening to something lower than the lowest human register.

Even the flickering ceiling fan turns me on.









PAGE 17

LA PETITE ZINE 25 ∑ FREAKY FREEZE

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Miranda Field is the author of SWALLOW (Houghton-Mifflin, 2002). Her work appears in numerous journals and several anthologies, including LEGITIMATE DANGERS (Sarabande) and NOT FOR MOTHERS ONLY (Fence Books), and has received a Katherine Bakeless Nason Literary Publication Award, a Discovery/The Nation Award and a Pushcart Prize. Born and raised in North London, UK, she lives in Manhattan, and teaches in the creative writing programs of New York University and The New School. www.mirandafield.com