Longlisted for 2023 Julie Suk Award The poems of Two Open Doors in a Field are constructed through deliberate limitations, restlessly exploring place, desire, and spirituality. A profusion of sonnets rises from a single circumstance: Sophie Klahr’s experience of driving thousands of miles alone while listening to the radio, where unexpected landscapes make listening to the unexpected more acute. Accompanied by the radio, Klahr’s experience of land is transformed by listening, and conversely, the body of the radio is sometimes lost to the body of the land. The love story at the core of this work, Klahr’s bond with Nebraska, becomes the engine of this travelogue. However far the poems range beyond Nebraska, they are tethered to an environment of work and creation, a place of dirt beneath the nails where one can see every star and feel, acutely, the complexity of connection. "A restless, stirring examination of travel and place."— Publishers Weekly "Sophie Klahr's second collection is so confidently crafted that the momentum of her poems carries the reader."—Sylee Gore, poetryfoundation.org "Over the course of Two Open Doors in a Field , the field and the doors of the title become the body's, and as the speaker's memories are embodied in language, the road trip between geographical states becomes a journey through deeply felt states of consciousness and selfhood."—Adedayo Agarau,  Los Angeles Review of Books Published On: 2023-08-05 "Sophie Klahr's second collection of poems Two Open Doors in a Field  takes the reader along on a road trip, that simple and enduring fantasy—the lonesome traveler seeking something—refuge, shelter, escape."— Hudson Review “Sophie Klahr’s spare twenty-first-century sonnets track a drift toward and away from attachment across a beautifully drawn, often desolate landscape. It’s a national myth, the lonesome rider searching the vast open spaces for shelter and refuge. But now the drifter is a woman as strong as she is vulnerable, and the wide desert skies, like the land beneath them, are compromised and endangered. Two Open Doors in a Field is exhilarating and restless, as scrupulous in its attention to our little roads and highways as it is to our longings.”—Mark Doty “Sophie Klahr’s poems are perpetual motion machines, stunning in all the ways they blaze through landscapes of adoration and epiphany and ache. From intimate sonnets to panoramic lyric sequences, from Jurassic seas to the spectral glow of motel pools and ‘pulses of song’ beneath a ‘dark bowl of stars,’ this synaptic second collection carries us across ‘deep time’ and its thresholds.”—R. A. Villanueva “A road map for those of us needing to connect to the world around us, particularly in an era when we’ve felt so isolated from human connection. Like the Virgil of this journey, Terence, Klahr, too, finds nothing human foreign to her. . . . The road is long, the night wears on, but we have ‘a place to sleep in her hands.’”—A. Van Jordan Sophie Klahr is a poet, teacher, and editor. Her poems have appeared in the New Yorker , American Poetry Review , Ploughshares ,  Poetry London , and elsewhere. Klahr is the author of Meet Me Here at Dawn . Driving Through Nebraska, Listening to the Radio Dawn on 101.5, The Fever: Sometimes you’re gonna have to lose, it sings. Mice behind the lath, swallows in the eaves; a rush of bergamot, wild sage drying on the sill, boots already wet from dew. The branches of a huge burn pile lift like still-submerged coral. That old dream again: the dream again of the house that isn’t. Why don’t you admit, you said, that all roads lead to Nebraska. In the time we spent together, somewhere, a few languages died. When you said It will always be un-even between us, I heard a new word for a field impossible to measure Parked, Nebraska you explained something to me about fire which I knew I would quickly forget. love is so short, forgetting is so long. this had been something I needed, what you said about the fire. for weeks we touched only in the dark, pulsed like sea anemones. every morning, you designed a new way to leave. soon we lost an hour of daylight; a turn signal of mine had broken—left side, back. I wanted to believe I could fix it myself. winter had rolled onto the acreage like someone turning in bed, their palm smoothing to fit a lover’s rib. when it snows, a car can disappear.