Corn Maze Afternoon

There where the blooms of burnt trees are promised. There

where the wet fall begins to yellow, the briskness of the afternoon

leading everyone past the old bobcat

to where the gray wolves circle above a highway.

There where goats nap.

So much to see, and the petting, nearly endless petting,

and so the bettering of habitat. Where the burnt trees gather

beneath orchard signs—"Just Us Orchards"; "Fruitlands"—

a white-eyed dog follows alongside the careless sweep

of your hand. Like skipping a stone. Nothing but grass and the three of us

adrift in the orchard. Much as we will be

long after the defunct mariachi band. Much as we will remain

after heroin park and the noodle house,

our voices echoing in a pool of floating ghosts, of chlorine

—all of it there, waiting for us, our future tied with a knot.

What are the other virtues, the ones after forgetfulness

and praise? And what follows

to resurrect these strewn, strawmade goods?

The last Early Girl glistening on the vine, the ridgeline

awash in light. Here where we climb,

follow signs and answer questions: if Jonah was swallowed

by a whale, turn right, turn right into the corn's

open heart, its many hands.

Copyright © 2007 Carol Ann Davis All rights reserved
from Psalm
Tupelo Press
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission