TIRESIAS IN THE WINTER FIELDS

Penelope Scambly Schott

All afternoon, earth darkens.
Trunks, stumps, cold stones. The hush

of fresh snow. This one moment
is the path I am going,

me and my dog stalking together
over sharp indents of rabbits.

And what pre-canid thing am I?

Once,
like Tiresias, I wanted to switch my sex

in the act of love. Instead,
I am tracking past species.

Being half
of a pair.

Where the dog snuffles, I peer into
darkness.

There, among frosty soybeans,
five deer sleeping.

I am ready to nest
in the purple councils of the air, asking,

How are the categories rightfully derived?

because I can’t disconnect
my own flesh from the grace of beasts—

my mothers and fathers being birds or fishes
or the creased and whistling stems

of movable grasses.