Ten Kernels of Corn Float in the Water BowlJulia Cohen & Mathias Svalina
Your brother scurries outside to check on the silver hair under the porch. You soak your fingers in the aluminum sink only to find that the barn slats bend beneath you, how the bones of a dead bat spread. In the glass of the baler your skin looks like a sunken engine. When you try to be more than human will your brother worry or applaud. The backyard builds a sand castle from corn meal. Down the rows of red clay your dry fingertips rustle like owls in the conifers. You bring the night & let your brother add the breaks for water. You're the deepest well that ever clipped the grass. Night is the barn molding over with sheep's milk. Night is your father folding into an unmade bed. Night is the only hour you cannot see the cornfield. Bring your pail closer to me. Bring it under your chin so the hose nuzzles your neck. A nozzle to keep you clean when daylight cannot. Knuckle-bones in the metal cup rattle the corrugated roof. Hold the ghost-glass up to the rows of clay so that you see your reflection in the fall of feathers, the humid prize of sunrise. You tip the water bowl over & your brother spills out. Tell yourself you’ve made it this far.
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