Shucking Corn

I am strong now
sitting on the rocker.
My feet push against
the wooden plank floor
and I cuddle my elbows
inside of my sleeves.

Looking through the screen
to the hillside beyond,
the earth’s boney spine
curves up within its
fall sweater, too,
trying to find warmth.

The farmer has abandoned
the field and the waving arms
of dying corn
try to lure my eyes
into the depressions
between its rows.

But leaves are already
clinging in broken bits
to the bottom of my jeans.
I have traveled
through the maze.

I pick them off.

No sense wondering
what I left
clinging in the cornfield
now that I am
free.

Calm Under Pressure

My grandma’s radiator had a bleed valve
that had a little wicker woven tassel
hanging from its side.
She warned me not to touch it
’cause it was HOT!

Sometimes she let me watch her
turn the valve with the bleed key
releasing collected pressure
with a hissing steam.

sssssssss…

Grandma is no longer with me.
I’m afraid I need that key.
I feel the heating pressure
building next to me,
’cause you are HOT!

sssssssss…