Waves of Corn

by Joshua Wait

The quaking of corn never left you. Waves of it,
sound of soft slithering ears all summer long.

Riding on a trolly through Oakland, weary
from work at the hospital, rocking gently, shadows
would bring back memories of corn waving over head
as you lay in the field as a child hiding from your brother.
The best ears, half the size of your arm. “You, no you,”
you’d say. “I want you.” A basket full of your catch fresh
from the crisp green ocean growing in the humid haze.
Chatter about the kitchen table, adults
discussing news of what’s selling, what’s not,
and for how much. Waves of it. It was a noise
like frogs roaring in the night or crickets
under the window sill. An irritation and a lullaby.
Crisp tearing leaves would join the chorus, impatient,
revealing sweet pearls, their milk on your fingers
from burst kernels. Freed from the strings of silk
twining your fingers, the corn would sigh in hot water.
Prairie lobster, sweet, fresh from the waves.

When you grew old, you could no longer see,
but you could reach out and feel the strands,
strands of a grandchild’s hair and remember corn,
waves and waves of corn.