What The Cornfield Remembers
The cornfield remembers a keening as we were torn
from the land like husks from the cob,
silky strands of memory clinging to the kernels
that held our very way of life. The soil remembers
receiving our grief, watered by tears that fell
instead of rain. The rustling of stalks is a disquiet
that hasn’t settled since. But do you know we carried
those seeds with us on foot, some 800 miles?
We carried them from Kituwah to Oklahoma. We grow
from those same plants all these lives later; we grow
hope in place of terror.