I Wear My Face in the Field, by Ryan Downum

Behold the animals, spooking at the water, haunting the field. Behold the field, writhing with blood, a gorgeous roiling horror. Behold the bloodhorse, mouth dripping with juice and psalms. Behold Ryan Downum’s I Wear My Face in the Field, a precise gore inside of which I feel as held as I do torn. As I read, I taste copper. I hold my breath. It’s a long walk into the tender-violent chaos of flesh and flora, a field of a poem that might just be endless in its unfolding. Wade in, right up to your waist – and trust me, keep going: “it’s like getting to the haunt of a thing.” Is this decomposition? Is this regeneration? Will the field ever be the same? – JJ Rowan, author of a simple verb (Bloof Books) I love how this frighteningly assured, sharp-aimed little book of animal poems gets at the weirdness of nature. Part minimalist narrative, part maximalist theater, the book takes place at the meeting point of Merwin and Aase Berg, Cormac McCarthy and Gerard Manley Hopkins. Ryan, I greet y