Do not write about the scar on the back of your hand.
They would not understand. You stoned,
rolling corn in the oven, sat there on a coil
long enough to smile up at you while
you write for the rest of your life.
Right handed and it means far more than pen to paper.
The ears through which you hear planted kernels last year,
just listening. Cellulose between your teeth. No butter.
Better dryer and raw. Right off of the stalk.
Do not get lost writing on corn.
Or on scars earned cooking it for dinner.
When you could write about this winter.
Or imagine all the scars to come.