the field behind our creek made a universe.

lips of skunk cabbage all flapping
& asking for their tongues back--
nests of grass tangled with each other
like legs after a warm bed. 
green fingers fluttering free in the dirt.
i planted clipped nails & asked them 
to become trees but nothing happened.
wanted part of me to bloom. 
cut my hair in the stream hoping
the stream would turn into hair--
a torrent of strands to be braided.
dipping fingers in the cool clear water
i fished out glossy ripe planets.
i found men the size of mice &
fed them sunflower seeds. tell me 
what you think a universe is made of?
i'm guessing palms or knee caps or
maybe wrists. something capable 
of movement & touch. something capable
of holding. the field would hold me
& tell me secrets in the form of 
bird calls. the field would push
rocks out from her chest-- each 
having once been a heart full of water.
trees fell on their own time
without consideration of gravity--
slow declines the way a child reluctantly 
makes their way into bed. i was a brother 
i was a son i was a daughter i was a
sapling hollowing out. i escaped
all identifiers to be part of the field.
do you remember the moment when
you became aware that the grass is
full of bugs? i was laying 
in the field & men crawled in my hair.
it was gross but i let them because
they had glossy exoskeletons that looked
like they'd taken a long time to make.
i buckle under the smallest of truths.
i have very little i can't be made to
give in to. the field knew this 
& told me i should be a firmer creature
but i just laughed & laughed. i just
made slippers of creak water. i just
plucked bird voices from the sky
& turn them into knickknacks. a universe
is something to be folded. something 
that could or does own a crease. 
when i left i would fold four times--
one across the length of the stream
& another fold down the middle.
place the field & all under my tongue 
where i'd try to pray it into 
a pearl but instead it became glossy 
calcite. a sharpening. the grass 
like thin daggers & the water a flowing
of shards. how a universe might also
be something to be changed. how the terrain 
asked me again & again to leave &
even the men crawled out of my hair.
i have scars on my fingers 
from tearing at that ground.