Mother Corn

By Kevin Heaton

Blue-Sky Cloudmen danced with wolves
to willow songs on the fork between two rivers.

They gripped the flowing robes of God and ran
to feel his pleasure. We stood tall like ‘Mother

Corn’ in harvest fields filled with pumpkins
and beans—ripened our cheeks with sloe plums.

Vultures bleached the skulls of our enemies.
Our children bathed in sweet streams, but owls

with greasy beaks came to shit darkness into our
council fires and perch on the eyes of our holy

men. Our flutes breathed fever. The people
choked on white clay dust and drowned in sand

on the banks of big-bellied water. We gazed
into the Spirit World from beyond a mask of death.

Categories: Issue 4, Poetry | 2 Comments

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2 thoughts on “Mother Corn

  1. Cork

    Who were these greasy beaked owls who changed the comfortable life style?

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