The Corn Is Green
by Kelli Trinoskey
Uncle Pete filled a silo
Colt 45 cans, shining beacons
of endless nights not remembering
the lost father, hunger,
the arrow in his brother Johnny’s eye.
We called him Sonny
for his smile, not addictions or the jobs
he quit because of the no-smoking signs.
A nomad, he drove truck, never straying far
from home, holed-up in a cubby-sized cell.
At thirty-six, corn was ready
to be brought in – we weren’t.
Long draw from the can, the smell of fermented
dreams, gone.
Johnny, at the ripe age of ten, rendered forever self
conscious, exempt from picking, didn’t weep.
Pulled the corn from the root, emptied the silo.