Cornfield In Winter

Earth glares at husband sky,
Grinds her corn husk stubs
Like dry shark’s teeth
Broken near the roots.

Stubble rot crackles.
Her word-winds split the rows
And blow a sulfurous breath
Hard across his face.

She demands her rights.
New roots, new growth,
A summer coronet of broadband leaves,
Green ribbons for a corn silk crop.

Husband sky remains unmoved,
Hides the hot transforming rain
Behind the blind whites
Of a February eye.

The universe will turn, she says.
She’ll be on top then
And spit black cinders
Into his pretty blue eyes.