(c) Somebody’s Always Hungry, 2011

Cornfield a poem by Juliet Johnson

Wide Rancid, awful Wide A little kid sits in the corner crying His thumb big and purple from too much sucking He’s sitting on vines covered with thick sticky Green velcro The birds pick at our hair, bleeding There’s plenty of fresh corn why are they eating us The kid tries to climb A stalk of corn so he can see better I can see over the tops It’s alright, I say We’re in it. The birds are singing a sweet song Like earth, dead, hard and quiet The kid crawls up inside me like a thousand ants making their homes The edge of the field is just over that hill I lay out flat Pulled out wide I cover the whole cornfield Pointy in every soft place From the grass, he says It looked easy