The road to his place was always dark
Subtle enough that I’d slam from 80 to reverse
when I saw his house aglow in the rear
I’d roll up with the sound of upset gears
and the scent of aggravated metal hot on my lips
There was always fire burning
Sometimes outside or inside and even in his eyes
It smelled of yearning jealousy and damp soil
Like the corn envied my coming and going
Midnights I’d untangle myself from him
and sneak off into the field to pray
I’d listen to crickets and the hum of the moon
I’d stand still enough to hear the rodents play
Always loud enough to muffle my worries
Every time I peed in his great-grandfather’s field
Felt like unzipping my soul in an equatorial lagoon
I’d let it float until I was empty
I’d zip it back in, and journey back to his bed
The moon would kiss my skin as he latched back on
I’d lay there pining to be out under stars
I’d hear the corn cooing behind a pane of glass
and by morning the field would stand silent at last
Staring hungry, as a dust cloud chased me into town
The corn would never follow me out of the field
It’d dance in the rain and writhe in the heat
Like a crowd of aggravated sundials
Every stalk a stone audience as I flew past
Daybreak or dark, I felt the corn’s stare
Miles of eyes upright and leering
From it’s coos I could tell it was festering bitter
A perpetual feeling of locusts in lungs
Until one day I left and I never came back.
