Shorter Than the Corn
Auda Ilvedson
Childhood reminiscence is not something
that I am quite fond of.
Gravel stuffed open wounds,
blood stained rocks perched silently
amongst the soil as my delicate hands
dug for amber.
Like a mole burrowing blindly
through clay red with iron,
sometimes I could find it
in my driveway.
Shorter than the corn that grows
parallel to the county road I ran,
recollecting fights with my brother –
rocks he threw landing in the soil where
they sprout, each year new grain
replacing the last. When awoken for
school each morning, I would gaze upon
the continuous crop,
questioning what would replace it
as I grew myself.
Childhood home still reminiscent,
growing bedrooms replaced with
shades of pink and Peppa Pig stuffed animals.
I gaze at facial creases in the mirror
as sun hits sunken dark circles,
reminding me of time.
Time, time, time.
Scarred cat scratches cover
my aging hands.
I pick my nails at the thought.