The corn is not sweet,
high rains,
drought,
nothing fits,
the juiceless smoosh.
The pavement
spits like a radiator,
at the tattered fringe
of her sheltering umbrella.
One car, ten,
one sale,
the seasons are unreliable.
The sun, restless,
skips another pocket of clouds.
Old hands, adept at soothing,
grasp the ridged caskets
of the corn husks, while dreaming
of her grandbaby, the way the sun
lights his skin,
like it used to shine
up through the sea
back home. And the van,
white
in the distance,
comes closer.
“The corn,” she whispers
through the spittle of dust,
“it’s not sweet.”
The officer,
like vanilla
ice cream,
stands dripping.
And despite
herself she laughs,
“he just couldn’t wait
to see me
again.”
Her law abiding fingers
wrap the husk
and even then she can feel
the lack
of crunch.
One car, ten,
and as he drives her away
she thinks
of the sun
and the way it could lift the ocean
straight out
of the sea.
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C.C. Fuller spends her time reading to children as a school librarian and as a mom to her two story-loving children. In addition, she writes poetry and children’s books. She has been published in Taproot Magazine and does her writing on a dining room table that has been in her family for three generations.
