Memorizing My Poem for English in the Cornfield
I go into the mass of stalks—
not walls, but wrists and arms.
Some say the world will end in fire.
My fingertips flood thick with blood. I remember: The Tigris
and Euphrates. Some say in ice.
The dirt is cold. I remember
the times tables. Rows like a scalp,
like an organized body. I remember
my father’s hand combing lice out
from my scalp and then my brother’s.
I lie down. From what I’ve tasted of desire
I hold with those who favor fire. I have been
unclean and slept without a shower.
I have learned facts. My father flicked
the eggs and nits into an upright
paper bag. It shook with wet.
But if it had to perish twice, I think I know
enough of hate. I labeled the faraway map.
I wrote nothing on my wrists. I put
the world away. The school bus
suspends us above the ground
each morning. We dream out
into the fog. For destruction,
ice is also nice. I free each word
like a white egg leaving.
not walls, but wrists and arms.
Some say the world will end in fire.
My fingertips flood thick with blood. I remember: The Tigris
and Euphrates. Some say in ice.
The dirt is cold. I remember
the times tables. Rows like a scalp,
like an organized body. I remember
my father’s hand combing lice out
from my scalp and then my brother’s.
I lie down. From what I’ve tasted of desire
I hold with those who favor fire. I have been
unclean and slept without a shower.
I have learned facts. My father flicked
the eggs and nits into an upright
paper bag. It shook with wet.
But if it had to perish twice, I think I know
enough of hate. I labeled the faraway map.
I wrote nothing on my wrists. I put
the world away. The school bus
suspends us above the ground
each morning. We dream out
into the fog. For destruction,
ice is also nice. I free each word
like a white egg leaving.
Psalm: Silence
I heard the counselor called your child in to grieve you
and asked him instead about your tattoo.
The neck of your child is warm with brooding,
crag child, rampant with closing. The neck
of you was wrapped with Jesus on a string.
They asked the child what men loved you.
Because there was more than one. Because stared at
substitutes for love. Now your son is motherless.
Stone Mary holds a body on her lap. Hard grief.
Instead of Him you felt for Mary, left alone.
There was a threshold before the statue, at her lap,
but it was cement, a floor, and no one felt
in the way to kneel on it. No, we never knew, or suspected
abuse, your sister said. Because girls read it right.
The instruction not to speak. Folded knees,
lowered head. Flock raised to be silent.
Swallowing the rest, only our beauty made us seen.
and asked him instead about your tattoo.
The neck of your child is warm with brooding,
crag child, rampant with closing. The neck
of you was wrapped with Jesus on a string.
They asked the child what men loved you.
Because there was more than one. Because stared at
substitutes for love. Now your son is motherless.
Stone Mary holds a body on her lap. Hard grief.
Instead of Him you felt for Mary, left alone.
There was a threshold before the statue, at her lap,
but it was cement, a floor, and no one felt
in the way to kneel on it. No, we never knew, or suspected
abuse, your sister said. Because girls read it right.
The instruction not to speak. Folded knees,
lowered head. Flock raised to be silent.
Swallowing the rest, only our beauty made us seen.
Jessica Cuello is the author of Hunt (The Word Works, 2017) and Pricking (Tiger Bark Press, 2016). She won the 2017 CNY Book Award for Pricking and the 2016 Washington Prize for Hunt. New poems are forthcoming in Pleiades, Barrow Street, and Cave Wall.
“Memorizing My Poem for English in the Cornfield”: I had a student who told me that he memorized a poem for my class in his cornfield at night because his house was too crowded. I think he was shy about reciting poetry at home. He was one of my kindest students and I loved that image of him in the field. Then the poem became about something else.
“Memorizing My Poem for English in the Cornfield”: I had a student who told me that he memorized a poem for my class in his cornfield at night because his house was too crowded. I think he was shy about reciting poetry at home. He was one of my kindest students and I loved that image of him in the field. Then the poem became about something else.