John, the rows of corn are ripe, or almost
now are ready to be
brought down. Four Augusts late,
I understand their hanging
to the side, and of course, behind
your father’s house. You’d have to know
about his grain
to guess at the muffled presence. Undisturbed
by deer, or the fox your father shot
(stooping first to mask his cuffs
with feral piss), the hidden stalks were pressed,
and put out, were wooded with cobs. Ten
ruined birds went bad in those rows, before
one wild thing got to them, I’ll bet. But the yield,
John, wasn’t human. You said that
cows would eat from the body
of the plot. Still, three lines drop
for the family scythe. First son. Open your hand.
Your inheritance is fodder. Tell
your bedazzled, blond brothers:
Who is your unveiled bride?