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"THE SUN IN THE CRADLE OF CORNFIELDS"

His laughter the burning of kindling
in this dry season, he stands in the bed
of the pickup truck,
feels the wind and the cool
when the road dips
and doesn't listen when his friends
tilt their mirrors from the sun to see him
and he knows what eager birds do
when the door is open. He lifts
his arms into the science of flight
and falls into matchsticks, turning
into that first call, the mother
from the door, the mother calling
on the third floor *son, son*
saying to the nurses *I know
he squeezed my hand, I know*
and he is somewhere ignoring the voice,
treading through the snow-dust
of scorched July, his shaved head beginning
to grow stubble again but he moves
out from under the eaves
like all children do, forgets
the mother's warning, her call and tests
the edge of the fire. Is it the sun
in the cradle of cornfields,
the tassels browning already?
And what light, he hits as he rises
at sunset, oh bright flame, oh bright flame.

Pamela McClure
Shenandoah
Volume 50, Number 4
Winter 2000

# 11:58

Tiepolo Honey mostly defunct, transferred intent and what was at one time an optimistic idea to dirty beloved -
"THE SUN IN THE CRADLE OF CORNFIELDS" His laughter the burning of kindling in this dry season, he stands in the bed of the pickup truck, feels the wind and the cool when the road dips and doesn't listen when his friends tilt their mirrors from the sun to see him and he knows what eager birds do when the door is open. He lifts his arms into the science of flight and falls into matchsticks, turning into that first call, the mother from the door, the mother calling on the third floor son, son saying to the nurses I know he squeezed my hand, I know and he is somewhere ignoring the voice, treading through the snow-dust of scorched July, his shaved head beginning to grow stubble again but he moves out from under the eaves like all children do, forgets the mother's warning, her call and tests the edge of the fire. Is it the sun in the cradle of cornfields, the tassels browning already? And what light, he hits as he rises at sunset, oh bright flame, oh bright flame. Pamela McClure Shenandoah Volume 50, Number 4 Winter 2000 # 11:58	artcyclopedia Internet Archive Image Base loc pnp EmbARK masters of photography dublog gmtPlus9 plep fiendishistheword pretty serendipities Giornale Nuovo under the fire star conscientious esthet Parking Lot bellona times UFO Breakfast Recipients :::wood s lot::: Caterina Poetry Daily Verse Daily Sprezzatura generationrice archipelago vertechnic InterTran alt. diacriticals rhetoricals quickcolor old bookmarks in no order some broken: literary bookmarks artmarks1 artmarks2 Books Page	archives(dirty beloved) to August 31 '03 archives Ω Email

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