Lightning in the Cornfield by Lydia A. Cyrus

     lilhelen Flickr CC



​Lightning in the Cornfield
for Mollie Tibbetts


Bolt after, the remaining harvest
which appears to be beautiful
but feels like bruised skin, pulled
tightly like the skin of a drum. The dull ache
a reminder of loneliness
as you drive for hours
into a place where corn grows
like patches of hair.

Like brunette hair,
which belongs to so many.
My hair, your hair, and hers.
and then there is the way
the stalks move, bristled by the air,
creating a path for you.
But they did not guess, could not
wonder what sort of pain
their bending creates.

So when a brunette body,
came to rest there in the stalks
the harvest whispered
if something becomes too topical
it is hard to read. They kept
and they covered for a month
a woman’s body. Preserved in farmland.

The lightning seems nearer then,
setting the corn aflame.
Five hours away from the patch
of growth that decayed. Leaving me
with only one question left to ask
What is it about a woman’s body,
bleeding, that interests you anyway?

​

Lydia A. Cyrus is a central Appalachian writer from Huntington, West Virginia. She is an award-winning scholar and her work as been featured in various places in print and online. She is a proud Mountain Woman who strives to make positive change in and about Appalachia. She lives in Lafayette, Indiana with her strong will and sense of truth, which guide her wherever she goes.

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