Detail of the Hayfield
By Richard Siken
I followed myself for a long while, deep into the field.
Two heads full of garbage.
Our scope was larger than I realized,
which only made me that much more responsible.
Yellow, yellow, gold, and ocher.
We stopped. We held the field. We stood very still.
Everyone needs a place.
You need it for the moment you need it, then you bless it --
thank you soup, thank you flashlight --
and move on. Who does this? No one.
Tuesday was my father's birthday, and Adam had no school because it was his high school's graduation day -- congratulations Churchill students! -- so Paul worked from home and we all went to lunch at Normandie Farm, a lovely restaurant that none of us had been to in years. It was pretty quiet (I suspect everyone ate too much over the weekend, as we did) and we were all very happy with the food; the place is famous for their popovers, which are excellent, though the fish, the eggs, the quiche, and all the desserts got good reviews too.
My parents' pool club opened for the season over the weekend, so after we gave my father his birthday presents and came home to change, he took my kids swimming and Paul and I finished work and various chores. We were so full from lunch that we really didn't eat dinner; we watched Carole King on In Performance at the White House, then the first episode of Spies of Warsaw with David Tennant, then a South Park episode none of us had ever seen about how cash cures AIDS which was kind of brilliant when it wasn't totally offensive, like all South Park!