Cornfield

Only one thing smells humid as corn
and I was singing
raucously at the top of my lungs
as I brought corn in.

Dust and pollen
made my bare skin itch
and my own sweat stung
where a leaf had crossed edgewise
to my skin.

I had brought several bushels in
and began to shuck:
full phallic ears like torpedoes,
dried matted silk
like pubic hair or tobacco.

I was all of ten,
or perhaps the summer I turned twelve,
when she called me in
and said my singing
shamed her.

That field has been gone forty years,
a house been built
and garage
on the lot where I sang.

I still feel a pang at the cruelty:
being slapped down,
not so much because of my mother,  
but my mother’s shame.