POEM - Eating Corn

Whenever I push my spade into the
Fatty folds of brown earth
I feel like a surgeon making an incision.
Fields as dark as a coma await planting,
An open wound that waits to heal.

In July and August,
When foliate scarecrow stalks reach up high
Everything is covered, everything seems healed.

I steadfastly denude the ears of corn,
I dutifully boil them, then christen them in oil.
I dust them with salt for bite.

I know well how to live off scarified things