poetry and prose about place


with 2 comments






at the first rustle

of shadow on skin

I wake beside him


I slide from the bed

flip the latch, climb through

the window, he will

be angry

the thought delights me


I cross to the cornfield

silken rows of ribbon

higher than my head

an army, khaki-clad

could march here

one row over

and we could all

have solitude


I shift rows


catch a glimpse

of tassels


boot heels

click into the next row

ribbons quiver


takes nine minutes

to find a cornrow

north to south

leads back to the house

I cross the yard

pause on the threshold

I hesitate

a stranger


the cornstalks whisper


I raise my fist

hammer on the door



Published as: ‘cornrows’, Spring 2013, The Antigonish Review 173




Copyright  2013   Jane Tims

Written by jane tims

November 11, 2013 at 7:28 am

2 Responses

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  1. I loved this poem the first time I heard you read it. Thanks for sharing it again. I appreciate the beauty and rhythm, the images and eerie sense of foreboding in this.


    Carol Steel

    November 11, 2013 at 8:29 am

    • Hi Carol. Thanks. This poem is an amalgamation of several memories of walking in cornrows. I am going to try and post more of my poetry. Now I am on a getting ready for Christmas jag so I may never regularize! Jane


      jane tims

      November 11, 2013 at 10:10 am

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