You led me to the river by way of the tall corn.
I wore sunglasses and a visor but imagined myself in a cape and Tricorner
hat like Marianne Moore. We walked through paths straight as cornice
molding, but still I felt a little claustrophobic, the Children of the Corn
trailer haunting the flipside of my cornea.
You took my hand. Then I went in for a kiss. The sky was cornflower
blue, my favorite Crayola peeled to a nub. I feasted on the cornucopia
of your mouth, your tongue and teeth. Oh cornbread,
oh buttered corn-on-the-cob, acorn squash, peppercorned
Cornish hens baked in Corning ware, Frito corn chips,
sauces thickened with cornstarch, corn chowder, salted popcorn,
free range cornfed chicken, corn syrup-sweetened soda, corndogs,
blue corn tortillas, corned beef sandwiches, creamed corn, cornflakes
and milk—they are but dull crumbs compared to the cornerstone
of your sugary suck. You earned your PhD in kissing from Cornell,
your dissertation on the effects of kitty-corner
lip-locks in lovemaking. The stalks around us opened like cornets
serenading the clouds. I remember peeling cornhusks
as a girl, the silky hair inside I’d save and braid, blond cornrows
for my dolls. You remember bales of hay and filling the corncribs
with food for the cows. About poetry, Moore wrote I too dislike it, scornful
of pretention. If she’d smoked, she would have inhaled from a corncob
pipe or candy cigar, something with comic flair. Call me a cornball,
but I’d go all the way to Bismark, North Dakota or Cornwall,
England with you—by ship, plane or purple cartoon unicorn.
I’d play badminton or a game of corn hole
if I could be on your team. I’d walk until my feet were full of corns
and bunions to meet you anywhere—by the river beyond this cornfield,
or on the southeast corner
of Main and Love.