At first she thought the lump in the road
was discarded corn casings,
the fine silk of corn tassel,
the curve of bag from stripped husks
left fom corn pickers, maize huskers,
the cobs were sent to cribs, shelled and ground for pone
or left for seed at the chandler
(seed corn must not be ground),
the botany of maize bran, of grain foraged
from fields now bare. A world she knew.
But there was movement, slight, not from
wind breeze or road heaves or passing cars.
She saw it, felt her heart beat faster,
a wretch start in her stomach, she walked
on heavy feet that didn't want to carry her
to or away from that curved bag with the gold tassels.
For Margaret's Play it Again Toads over at the Imaginary Garden with Real Toads. I picked Hallow's Edge by Ella that had us take a line from a ghost poem. I used "at fist she thought the lump in the road..." from Red String by Minnie Bruce Pratt.
