I wade through high brown grass
hot sun burns my scalp
grasshoppers hurl their hard bodies
hit my skinny girl chest.
Tall mean thistles sting
bare arms and legs,
but I am singing, twining a melody
around the whine of locusts.
With a fistful of mint from the stream
in one hand, in the other pungent
late-summer wildflowers
Indian paintbrush, blue chicory
Queen Anne’s lace.
I burst into the kitchen.
The screen door smacks behind.
Mint for iced tea, I yell.
Corn, shouts my brother,
spreading newspapers.
On the boil the battered kettle
shakes and rattles, clouds
of steam roll into the sweltering room.
I stuff the flowers in a jelly glass,
sink to my knees by bulging
grocery bags. Quick, methodical
we peel each husk in turn.
Plump kernels appear behind
the last translucent layers
then with sharp thumbnails I ease
strands of silk from grooves
before Mom whisks the ears away
slips them into the roiling water.
After dinner heat lightning bounces
behind the trees, bugs thwack
against rusty screens.
Waiting for cool, we play go fish,
old maid, slap jack. I pop
a stray kernel between my teeth
sweet juice runs down my throat.
Suzannah Dalzell lives on Whidbey Island north of Seattle, WA. Her work has appeared in Pilgrimage Magazine, Raven Chronicles, Flyway, Adanna, Minerva Rising, Oberon, About Place and Glimpse. She is currently working on a collection that explores places where her ancestry intersects with race, class and environmental damage.
