POETRY: Cornhusk Dolls

born between cicada cycles
full of the need
to chase and be chased
the dark brought out
the best in us
sixteen and rough
Mountain Dew bottles
half full of tobacco spit
more flint than hills
trucks lining the lots
along Wanamaker
vinyl booths at Village Inn
sticking to our thighs
as we told and retold
all the things we heard
but no one could prove
gangs on Golden
exploding barns
knives and thorough violence
we didn’t have monsters
we had each other
rumors that disappeared
into the corn and wheat
our windows down
hands cupped in the wind
sunburnt arms the color of rust
catching the dust