cornstalks tender_square we drove the county roads in the dark, found a secluded strip to hotbox renee’s jetta, as mike skinner flowed a slurred stream of dulled consonants: “i'm still not feeling anything, this has got to be a dud.” we parked on the shoulder and rolled down the windows after we burned it to a roach. and when ryan and lexi and josh and renee got rowdy and giggly, i tried to quiet them down, ever the car mamma. “why?” exclaimed ryan, “who’s going to complain? the corn?” i withdrew, drifted deeper inside myself; looked out the window and counted the tidy rows of dry stalks, listened for their leaves rubbing whispers in the wind that only i could hear. 211109 what's it to you? who go blather from