The Amazing Maize Maze,
Seven miles south of Townsend, Montana
Forget tapestries of forest, sugary nights
of worry among the gingerbread-barked,
curious howls that might or might not be.
This thicket's man-made, man-planted, and we
enter in full knowledge, without guile.
Together we cross from open space to narrow
lanes of maize. Spent canes litter the undergrowth,
slender felled limbs we trip over in the fading light.
Yesterday's rain has slicked the ground and now,
we lug the cornfield's placental weight on our boots.
In the dark, my hands wrap your small fist and I think
too late of stones, of moonlit pebbled paths. The tussling
walls are voices taunting us: It could happen,
you could lose each other. Nothing is certain,
no easy passage guaranteed. Tonight in bed, I'll try
to dream up lakes of grass, boundless green
plains sprawling, merging with the sky.
Instead, I'll see a birdcage stuffed with corn and children,
a simmering stew nearby, sugar glass windows
cracked open to miles of black forest,
and this strange cackle blooming in my throat.
Theresa Boyar lives in Helena, Montana, and is the author of Kitchen Witch (Dancing Girl Press, 2007). Her poems and stories have appeared or are forthcoming in The Florida Review, Poet Lore, Tar River Poetry, Small Spiral Notebook, Blue Fifth Review, and Ghoti.