How beautiful is the first month of summer;
Bikinis, lazy streaks and a wisp of sunscreen,
When halos disappear, as you drive past
Rows of sunflowers, in mid Iowa.
You can only feel, the pollen saturated air,
A hood less car, the sun filling her up,
Knowing a man is just around the corner,
Just like how children run around corn fields,
Colliding at corners.
A summer fling, boating on a little creek,
Looking at a man’s muscled arms, a tattoo
Descending from his right sleeve,
Rowing you forward, while you steal a gaze at his crotch,
Knowing that summer is typically fleet footed,
Except for what memory captures,
Etched on reel.
How you made sweet love, inside the doming corn,
Maize plants rising in the air, as if praying to the gods,
For a protracted summer. Tall plants of corn,
Just like a tall man’s feet, are bigger than the rest,
Towering over the corn field. The sport of love,
In a field of corn, spectacular, knowing
That every sparrow that flies above,
Catches a glimpse of you.
A woman, like a corn borer,
Sinks her lips, down a sturdy corn plant,
While the wind blows her hair,
While tassels release tiny pollen to the air,
Which are carried by the wind, to a woman’s silk,
Where pollen deposit, sprinkled and pollinated,
And yet knowing a woman is just a barren land,
Of tender silk, knowing that its not
That time of the month.
A fling, a careless
Moment, beneath doming corn,
Butterflies fluttering their winds around us,
While we embellish each other,
A picnic cloth lying between the dust and our naked bodies,
A spread of our bodies, a banquet of sin,
Learning that we fall, just to know,
We are capable of falling.
No strings of god to maneuver us,
Inside a corn field, while the silk entertains,
As a man gives her a few minutes,
Of love, in the neat, mightier than any dowry,
Blissed by a spikelet of corn,
Until the pollen burst open,
From oscillating tassels.