Indian Corn


On the night my brother died,
the moon was out in full.

The calls rang in a little after three.
A late-shift county patrolman

found the body, flung some thirty feet
into cornfields, cheeks pocked with

glass and Indian corn. Scarecrows
are made to look like a body—

dressed up in their too-human
flannels and jeans, hoisted

upright onto a cross in a field,
made to stand watch over endless

endless rows. Life brims
the corner of their eyes, seeing

the shift of one season into
another. Was that brotherhood—

to be left wondering if
he had chanced to look at the sky

and see the moon
shine across his windshield?