by Gwendolyn Mauroner

The first weekend in October
brought the last corn

of the season to market. We bought
two bushels and shucked them

in the yard, peeling back layers
as the cat chased silk strands

through chrysanthemums. In the kitchen,
I cut kernels from the cobs and they flew

like fireflies across the room, speckling
the countertops and my apron,

clinging to my fingertips;
amber jewels in a shallow bowl.

The cat came in with silks strewn
across her whiskers, and you laughed

and leaned in to lick a kernel
still stuck to my glowing cheek.

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