we shucked our corn
in a field of sun
like farmers before the feast.
their husks of green
covered the ears
to keep them deaf and dumb,
to keep them unaware,
of the violence they would succumb.
moist with dirt, smelling sweet,
our hands became the tools
of poor mid-western violence.
we stripped their bodies bare,
clean of rotting silk,
that fell between our toes.
butter and salt,
on a table of barn wood,
that splinters to rough touch,
in a freshly mowed yard,
filled with light of summer dusk,
when the ground begins
to cool the air,
where the bugs
illuminate the night.
there were no screams
but
laughter could be heard.