By Phoebe Myers

Peeled back, the corn here is jeweled

black. Its side froths into storm clouds

firm but spongy - ready to gather.

One darkened kernel renders the ear

unsellable, corn smut. Unsaleable devil’s

corn, the velvet truffle of the heartland

snuffed out by my tender, unseen nose.

When combusted it weeps ink, rusts.

In all the books of opioids and the death

of industry this earthy resin is unwritten,

our fungus scourged.

Each evening, after combines winnow

rows of gold, reap and thresh

I watch a blackbird wait, wings in arabesque.

Rising moon serrates the wheaten

dome of lost day. Only when sky melts

into indigo and the fields butter with dew

will the blackbird escape its pastry entremets.

Our own selves, too, mushroom in night rains.

Phoebe Myers is a writer currently finishing her M.F.A in creative nonfiction from Florida State University. Her work has recently appeared in Tricycle: The Buddhist Review, Adelaide, and The Florida Review. She received two residencies at Art Farm Nebraska where she learned how to use a reciprocating saw.