Shucking Corn

The easy afternoon kisses my hands

where they settle,

pressed into the husk of the ear—

green, still damp from the soil.

My grandmother rips those leaves,

removes the silk and snaps the shank

without hesitation—

I’m too aware of my clumsy fingers,

tripping over themselves

as I peel strand by silken strand

from the beaded kernels.

Piano fingers she called them

when I missed too many notes,

long and graceful.

I catch her, sometimes,

looking at her own hands,

gingerly assessing those twisted joints,

catch her tapping out hymns

on the gap-toothed keys Wednesday mornings.  

There is a pile of husks strewn

on today’s newspaper, the headline

blank-staring from underneath

another refugee turned away

and I stumble again: the breath, this time.  

Maybe it’s the wrinkled skin

that makes mine seem so soft

unspotted from days in the sunshine

like hers—the farmer’s daughter.

Like so many other days spent learning

how to bake, to sew, to pick ripened strawberries.  

Those moments dripped soft

like melted butter pooling under steaming corn—

I haven’t found my calling.

What is it to walk,

unencumbered into waiting church benches,

to look at moving hands

and not falter?

There’s so much to learn:

how to save a world, how to shuck corn.

AS ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED IN SKY ISLAND JOURNAL IN THE SUMMER 2019 ISSUE