the field beyond

He asks what my favorite color is
but my tongue rests in the trough of my mouth.
As he pulls out the first cuticle
it does not twitch or rise.
The tweezers small and silver,
rust edge and bits of skin.

He asks what detergent I have,
yet my teeth don't grind for him.
The table small, metal.
Only one folding chair, no rope.
I sit. Right hand clamped down, greasy palm.
Tweezers latch: slow peel,
blood seeps nail.

The picture was the farm
picnic table red and Tanner, Caleb,
I sit hunched forward, squint eyed
and breezy with tree leaves and hay strands.
Buppy perched on the edge eyeing the taker.

When my right hand is ripe
blood dry, his whiskey empty,
it's time to make the left hand pulse
with the telephone, the answering machine,
the dirt spackled spade upright in the garden.

The room lit with his flush face
rouge and sweat beads. The 4x4's behind
him rotting, the water, the termite mansions.
Sun is drying the outer logs and glistening grass,
prairie thick with mosquito clouds.
And when this is done, I will
enter and let them feast.
Scarecrow stiff with sinking sun.
No grimace or garments.

When the fireflies appear, I will
go inside and make a cup of tea.
Sip in the chair, pinky finger
ceiling ward.