Only on a night where the Southern breeze
isn’t eighty degrees, I can close my eyes
and listen to hollow scrapes of palm fronds
sweeping cooly into one another
and I can hear hollow scrapes of corn husks, too,
waving from an autumn-colored field
I hear my seven-year-old feet thump hard against mud
oh, I am always so careful not to trip
on fallen cobs with deer-teeth imbedding
I’d rather fall and sink my face into frost-scented dirt,
sink into the arms of the earth protected by tall stalks.
I’ll never get used to sitting here at the edge of the country
with nothing to fall into but salt and drowning seas.