cornfields are romantic.
is romantic the right word? it’s something at the crossroads of sensual, breathtaking, sexy. it’s
golden.
it’s being kissed by the sun, on the forehead, the cheek, the neck. in a cornfield the hour is always golden.
in the rows i exist, and i see a glimpse of a friend’s face – we peek at each other and smile. i rustle along, finding what appear to be the fattest ears – but as in other areas of life, looks can be deceiving. and i unwrap each one, there in the field, like some people do in grocery stores over big bins – one of the remnants of humanity’s soulful crackling existence right there in the grayed fluorescent aisles – and i think, i wish they could all unwrap their corn here, in its birthplace.
the first ear i unclothe slowly, saying soft goodbyes to each layer of husk as they fall to the ground, and soft hellos to the scandalous beauty within as she reveals herself. after much gathering, i grow more impatient, and clods of wrapping fall as i eagerly seek the inner knowledge of each ear. such as it is, my man hands ravaging the sweet corn.
i walk back the way i came, satisfied.
-8/12/20
