in the summer her mother cries out her name,
as the harvest comes in.
rows of pure indiana corn,
swollen, pollen-filled and
waiting. festering.
in summer, she sits hungry and
wanting. like a sick dog she waits at her doorstep,
sweltering; silent; whining through molars
and drool.
she hears her mother call her name again and
through the spit she imagines
a billion corn-seeds
crying with her. she walks toward
the porch and sees her mama and
all her broken fingers.
she feels the pregnant stalks call after her;
they use her name and spit her mistakes back at her
like sunflower seeds.
she opens the screen door; her head aches,
she smells
of grain and pond-water and
baby powder.
she feels her arteries and
extends her elytra,
jerks her thorax toward the setting sun,
breaks all six legs on
impact.
her pollen-friends insist they're laughing with her,
they poke her limbs.
they watch her writhe.
"oh, isn't this beautiful? how gorgeous
you look with your
husk shucked off you."
she nods; silent. how flayed she is,
how vulnerable, how innocent,
like a pig led for slaughter.