“flying over fields, I think of my grandfather” by Paula Harris

flying over fields, I think of my grandfather

below us
there are fields growing
a crop
that I don’t recognize,
the soft ins and outs
from one row to another
forming a green corduroy
draped over the ground

when he’d finished in his workshop
for the day
and cleaned the grease from
the creases of his skin
my grandfather would put on
a soft shirt
and corduroy pants
whose ins and outs
had softened
from years of wearing

he would sit in a chair
by the fire
(lit in winter,
empty in summer)
and I would sit
at his slippered feet
playing snap
with my cousins
or with lego
by myself

if I knew him today
I suspect I’d find him
to be
a controlling
sexist
bastard
who I would avoid
whenever possible

if he knew me
he’d probably think
I’m a
freak of a grandchild
and a waste of
child-bearing hips

but
we are frozen in time
and only know each other
in this moment

his soap-scented hand
on my hair,
my six year old head
resting against
his knee
encased in
brown corduroy

Paula Harris

Paula Harris lives in Aotearoa/New Zealand, where she writes and sleeps in a lot because that's what depression makes you do. She won the 2018 Janet B. McCabe Poetry Prize and the 2017 Lilian Ida Smith Award. Her writing has been published in various journals, including Hobart, Berfrois, The Rialto, Barren, SWWIM, Diode, Glass, Aotearotica and The Spinoff. She is extremely fond of dark chocolate, shoes, and hoarding fabric. website: www.paulaharris.co.nz |

It is our extreme misfortune to have to add the news to this post that Paula Harris passed away in 2023. We hope her work continues to serve in her memory.

Headshot: Tabitha Arthur

Photo credit: Staff