untiled
Annabelle Fields

the cold ground pressed against my baby feet is blue.
the paint flakes off, revealing the hardwood underneath.
where there is not paint,
there is wood.
where there is not paint,
there is not paint.
where there is not paint,
from the perspective of the paint,
there is nothing.
where there is not blue,
from the perspective of my baby feet,
there is not ground.

my toes have been conditioned to the deciduous lava;
sometimes my skin peels off in sheets of steam.
where there is not steam,
my skin piles up in corners.
where there is not paint,
the family remains.
as a toddler, i can already walk on water.

as a toddler,
the clouds lie flat along the breeze.
broken leaves spin frantically,
trying to go home or make it to heaven.
where’s their home?
i want to go there–home. ​


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