This Field Wasn't Always a Field, and: Floodwater

This Field Wasn't Always a Field

The paint on the hood glistens.
If she looks deep, glints of light like fish
or stars start swimming. She thinks
she's seen this before in nail polish.
She smells her fingers, checks the middle one's
last knuckle. Swollen. A crescent purpled
one side this morning. Some grounder's
bad hop she doesn't remember. The boy's still trying
to say it, leaning back on the windshield, but all the Irish
blood in the ground can't help him. Quiet, quiet,
all the way home. He corners carefully
like someone older. In two years she will learn
to drive. Her temple rests in one small circle
on the window, all the blood leaving there,
a cold coming in.

Floodwater

Something left this morning after making a small river of me.
Left after the small river was made, where I make a small river.
Yesterday I tried to explain about the smell,
how it was coming up out of the ground.
Mild days to savor, to be not sure.
Days to watch for the red bird, to run wet and dull,
bright, then dull. Days to find the chickadees
helmeted and ready.