CORN SILK

My grandmother Cora picks firm pea pods
and dangling green beans that stretch
to the cool black earth.
She sails up and down the aisle of corn stalks
picking, husking, picking, husking.
Sunflowers hover to shade her bent
shoulders with their golden faces.
I sit on the white rail fence
with sweaty brown pigtails
wondering if the buds on my breasts
will ever be in full bloom,
wondering if her hair was ever long,
blonde enough to be corn silk.

We wear faded dish towels tied around our necks,
threadbare drapes of checkered blue and white.
The dinner table bulges with mismatched Pyrex bowls
holding tomatoes, sweet corn and tender beans.
Glass pitchers of ice tea floating lemon
circles glimmer in the marmalade-colored dusk.
Sweet cream butter melts into
crevices of sun-yellow kernels,
baking powder biscuits crumble
onto Cora's summer-stained tablecloth.
My grandfather nonchalantly whacks
a blood-swollen mosquito on his arm.
He does not miss.

Grandmother does not have many summers
left to eat tomatoes or butter her husband's biscuits.
She serves slices of rich pound cake smothered
in strawberries frosted with sugar.
My sister and I take one more swing
on this hazy night before the full moon comes.
We giggle until stars blink between oak branches.
Crickets fiddle and fireflies dance among
the blueberry bushes and Queen Anne's lace.
Cora sighs, hating to see August leave.
My grandfather takes her hand, and brushes
tassels of corn silk off her shoulders.