Leslie E. Hoffman
A hot breeze separates the stalks of summer
as I run between the rows of ripe, golden ears,
a trickle of blood running down my knee.
She didnít believe me.
Where stalks end, Rudyīs bridge stands,
spaces between planks wide enough to step into;
the pain of truth blinding, separating.
She didnít want to believe me.
Kneeling on a plank, I ignore a splinter
entering my cut, shallow, like the creek below,
barely deep enough for tadpoles. Behind me,
the breeze thrums silk on ears of stone.