corn singing

sometimes i see the corn in the winter.
she is walking the fields, snow up
to her throat. around here, it is all
feed corn. as a girl i stole an ear 
on a walk through the snaking country roads.
it tasted like knuckles. warbling sun kernel.
the corn sings to me & i sing back.
roots like eyelashes. i am getting older 
which is to say i have less summers.
we used to have a family friend 
who would report, "i have maybe
ten summers left." i imagine my life
measured in corn. it sounds more plentiful.
hundreds & hundreds of ears.
myself, swaddled in a husk with
all my teeth kept safe from another mouth.
at my first job, i was a harvester. 
i picked apples & i pickled corn from stalks
& i plucked berries. they always asked me,
"where are we going?" i lied to them
or maybe i didn't. i said, "home."
winter makes me want to go home.
cold feet on the hard wood floor.
there is never enough money. never enough heat.
never enough corn. the spirits beg me
to take my face off & leave it in the field.
i explain that i am an unfortunate kind 
of crop. the sewing does not end. 
at least, not anymore. i find soil 
in my bed. i find soil in the sink. 
the corn walks away without me. 
in the cold night i hear her song though.
it is like beads in a tunnel of light.