The cornhusk is
oblong and green with overlapping peels.
The interwoven quilt covers
a sheet of silky threads that sticks in white,
fades to yellow and then brown,
twisted ragged at the top.
Huddled underneath are the kernels,
deep yellow dulling to white
through the cob’s length,
stuck in close and rooted deep.
Row by row the kernels dig into
the bed of the cob,
which nestles them close,
a firm mattress forming
to their soft, waxy skin.
I wonder how it is that they never argue,
lying so close together like that,
like my mama and daddy argued
before they divorced.
Now I have to find my way,
my teeth navigate the cob,
from Rock Hill to Cross Anchor,
with Lockhart in-between
and McConnells on the way
to Lockhart from Rock Hill.