Elizabeth Bradfield: Writer & Naturalist

Elizabeth Bradfield: Writer & Naturalist Elizabeth Bradfield: Writer & Naturalist Elizabeth Bradfield: Writer & Naturalist
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Elizabeth Bradfield: Writer & Naturalist

Elizabeth Bradfield: Writer & Naturalist Elizabeth Bradfield: Writer & Naturalist Elizabeth Bradfield: Writer & Naturalist
  • Home
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    • Cascadia Field Guide
    • Broadsided Anthology
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Poems from "Interpretive Work"

Creation Myth: Periosteum and Self

         Hormonally imbalanced females of all deer species 

        have been known to grow antlers.

This is what I choose.  Periosteum rampant on my brow 

and testosterone to activate it at the pedicle.

        “Luxury organs,” so called because they aren’t 

        necessary for survival. 

I choose the possibility buried in the furrow 

which has ceased to disappear between my eyes 

in sleep, in skin my lover has touched her lips to.

        Females produce young each year.  Males produce antlers. 

Forget the in-vitro, expensive catheter of sperm

slipped past the cervix, the long implications

of progeny.  I am more suited to other sciences, other growth.

        Researchers have snipped bits of periosteum 

        from pedicles, grafted them onto other parts 

        of a buck’s body, and grown antlers.

I’ll graft it to my clavicle.  My cheekbone. 

Ankle.  Coccyx.  Breast. At last visible, 

the antler will grow.  Fork and tine.  Push and splay.  

        Researchers have tricked deer into growing and casting 

        as many as four sets of antlers in one calendar year.

It won’t wait for what’s appropriate, but starts

in the subway, in the john, talking to a friend about her sorrows, 

interviewing for a job.  My smooth desk, my notebook, 

my special pen with particular ink, my Bach playing 

through the wall of another room—not the location

of the prepared field, but what the light says, when

the light says now.

        Deer literally rob their body skeletons to grow 

        antlers they’ll abandon a few months later.

It could care less about the inconvenience forking 

from my knee, the difficulty of dressing, embracing, or 

piloting a car.  It doesn’t care

        Essentially bucks and bulls are slaves to their antlers.

if I’m supposed to be paying bills or taking the dog 

for her evening walk.  There is no sense to it, no logic, just thrust. 


It does its work.  It does its splendid, difficult, ridiculous work and then,

making room for its next, more varied rising,

gorgeous and done, it falls away.

Back to Interpretive Work main page

Most of the poems in Interpretive Work were published before content was widely available online.  

I wanted to make some of them more accessible here.

Interpretive Work

www.ebradfield.com

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