We weren’t supposed to walk there.
Too much static,
too many rules about grounding.
But it looked like any other field—
gold from a distance,
split by low fences,
grasses bent as if bowing
to nothing.
We touched the wires anyway.
Some buzzed.
Some didn’t.
One of us said:
It’s fine.
They’d tell us
if it wasn’t safe.
But even then,
I knew.
Safety isn’t the opposite of harm.
It’s just what you’re told
when you ask too many questions.
The wires hummed in my teeth.
Something inside
was rearranging.
No birds in that field.
No mice, even.
Only our breath
catching on each other’s shoulders
as if afraid
we’d turn
into versions of ourselves
we couldn’t carry back.
We stayed too long.
The wind picked up.
It didn’t sound like wind.
It sounded like a voice
trapped in copper.
Not warning—
confessing.
Later,
we checked our skin for burns.
We laughed,
touched our tongues
to metal.
We never told anyone.
But we never returned, either.
Whatever we learned there
wasn’t a story.
It was a charge.
It stayed with us.
Even now,
when the lights flicker
and no one else notices,
I know
the field remembers.
Such a great piece.