The Field Behind the House

I asked my daughter
what she was waving at
through the window,
and she said, the man in the field.

There is no man in the field.

There is only the field,
the brown grass,
the wire fence
I built myself.

She said, he waves back now.
She said, he's getting closer.

I looked again.
The field was empty.
The grass moved in the wind
the way grass moves.

That night I checked the locks.
That night I stood at her door
and watched her sleep,
her small hand open
on the pillow
like she was waiting
for someone to take it.

In the morning she said,
he's nice, Daddy.
He says he knew you
when you were little.
He says you used to wave too.

I don't remember waving.

I don't remember any man.

But last night,
for just a moment,
I thought I saw
something
at the edge of the field,
a shape
the color of the grass
that didn't move
when the wind moved,

and my hand,
without my telling it,
started to rise.