Olga Suvorova, In the Kitchen
Sugar and Butter
Deborah DeNicola
This morning I put one hand on the small of my back to stretch
and I felt the vibes of an ache I had loved in the past,
my fifteenth summer, afternoons on the farm when I snuck
away to meet the neighboring boy in the 6ft high field of corn.
In the thick of stalagmite stalks, he’d recognize my eyelet blouse,
the white one with abalone buttons, and place his hand,
pushing gently on the small of my back, as we stepped deeper in
and he led me to where we could snuggle down to the ground,
trying not to crush the cobs that were ready to harvest.
The best was Sugar and Butter, then Golden Bantam and Jubilee.
But Silver Queen was the sweetest and most precious of my uncle’s crops.
I quelled my terror of being caught beneath that canopy of corn,
swimming into the chartreuse jungle, where rootworms, pesty
aphids and flea beetles flew, where everything was lush and ripe,
deliciously glowing beneath blonde clouds of nubile light.
Deborah DeNicola
This morning I put one hand on the small of my back to stretch
and I felt the vibes of an ache I had loved in the past,
my fifteenth summer, afternoons on the farm when I snuck
away to meet the neighboring boy in the 6ft high field of corn.
In the thick of stalagmite stalks, he’d recognize my eyelet blouse,
the white one with abalone buttons, and place his hand,
pushing gently on the small of my back, as we stepped deeper in
and he led me to where we could snuggle down to the ground,
trying not to crush the cobs that were ready to harvest.
The best was Sugar and Butter, then Golden Bantam and Jubilee.
But Silver Queen was the sweetest and most precious of my uncle’s crops.
I quelled my terror of being caught beneath that canopy of corn,
swimming into the chartreuse jungle, where rootworms, pesty
aphids and flea beetles flew, where everything was lush and ripe,
deliciously glowing beneath blonde clouds of nubile light.