What I remember about the cornfields

     is their smell, how I knew I was home

when their sulfur smoked into my nose.

     The rock I dug from the fields, I palmed

in my dirty hand, spun it through the air,

     purpling my sister’s jaw. She ran. I hid

behind the open front door, hushed

     there for hours, pretending not to hear

my father’s shouts jangling the door

     frame. When I did sneak out & peek

from the window, my mother was waving

     her hands at the police. Strangers

were hollering my name in the streets.

     I inched back behind the door, hundreds

of chemical punishments crop-dusting

     through my skull. I admit I did hear

when my mother wailed into the phone,

     pacing right by me: He must be in the fields.

I watched dusk eat the sky, watched

     the cornfields shuck the neighbors out

empty-handed. From the door’s slight

     crack, I watched my mother come inside

& slump against my father’s chest,

     watched as he held her with one hand,

easing the door shut with the other.

     Maybe I would do it all over again

just to study how her face muddled,

     watch how it split & split & split again

as she yanked my arm into a hug,

     wrenching a tight handful of my hair.

You stupid boy, she hissed. Stupid,

           stupid boy, kissing every inch of my face.