The Field That Remembers Names
There is a field that remembers names
long after the mouths that made them close.
Grass bends at the sound of recognition,
not wind—something slower, more deliberate.
I walk through it carefully,
trying not to say anything that might stay.
The soil is dense with unfinished language,
vowels pressed into root systems,
consonants waiting for rain.
Beneath me, a sentence refuses to end.
I kneel.
Press my ear to the ground.
It hums—low, patient, almost human—
and I realize it already knows mine.
Isabella Aleksander is too often confused with pop culture’s most topical red heads. She used to make the claim that her hair is orange not red. She isn’t creative but sometimes her poems are. Her favorite word is circumlocution.
Amethyst Review 