Here is a field (ripened with rain) full of itself
it pitches red earth across its surface a handful
of clay for sustenance and longevity and a footprint

for your child. The grass is full of small horses
they are made of bone and tangled in the green—
I watch them writhe around my feet. A spearhead

of light is enough to break a hoof or hoof’s sharper cousin
hooves in half or in three or four pieces. I gather the pieces
of this metaphor and pour them in a bucket

to make a child. I tangle the hooves in my hair
to make a crown. This is simple science and these
are small bleached animals. Around me the sun

slips like a sieve breakage the sky once a vessel
is cut into amber shields the way we shield each other
is nothing like a shield but like a sieve with nothing left

to run through it even the grass is steadfast—
the roots repurposed into bandages and ornaments
and children’s clothing. Behind me my shadow elongates

like a defunct spoon what is its purpose
I wonder light quick across the field quick
as a razor and so many deft hands to harness it

this poem is a pale green color this poem
is a sick child clutch it to your breast
this poem is about misplacement.  


Audubon has listed their primary birds as the bald eagle,
Black-necked stilt, brown pelican,
Cerulean warbler, among others. To stilt, to cerulean against
Death is my objective. It is easy
Enough to remove the dead birds from my
Father’s garage, place them on the curb. Wasn’t it the fifth day that
God created birds? The earth created its own
Housing for the winged creatures. How
I wish to fly in every direction from here. It is true people
Joyride through my neighborhood on stolen golf carts,
Knowing/not knowing that the river swells over the path when it rains. Head-
Lights are rendered useless in the gold of evening. Bodies are rendered
Mammoths by the streetlamps. Soon it will be
November again and I will crack the sticks
Of my bones together for warmth,
Peel my flesh in strips off my face.
Quite a hermetic time!
Really, I just dabble in creationism. I have listed my primary birds as the
Summer, its jeweled inhabitants. In
Time we will all die out. Our bodies will make new bodies,
Understand this. When again it is
Winter water will freeze onto our faces
‘Xactly as it always does and we will be assigned a new
Youth. Upon arrival we will become feathered
Zealots, flying backwards like hummingbirds.




Aidan Forster is the managing editor of Crashtest and a sophomore in the creative writing program at Fine Arts Center in Greenville, South Carolina. He was awarded a gold medal in poetry at the Scholastic Art and Writing Awards, and is a 2015 recipient of the Anthony Quinn Foundation Scholarship. He has work in or forthcoming in Verse, Polyphony HS, and The Best Teen Writing of 2015.