Corn Maiden
Tricia Knoll
She shuffles the
tiniest footsteps
she can, closing
in
on raven watching
from a pinyon
pine.
She soothes
her skirt, dusty
from walking
uneven
pebbled earth.
She forgets her
once golden-silk
braids tied with a
leather thong,
gray now, long, no
longer
loose hair in her
teeth.
Her skirt
weathered to ash.
She reaches inside
her shirt
for one kernel to
feed the dirt,
one to feed the
orphan at her heels.
She sighs blue
smoke
a swish of green
stalk rising,
waves one hand at
sunset
the other at moon
and stars.
Her finger dips
into mud
enough and
abundance,
a white shadow
stretches
a blue corn
thanksgiving
above the mound
where her body
goes to rest
for winter.
Poet’s Notes: Many indigenous people have stories about the Corn Maiden. I'm most
familiar with the Zuni story. This is my own version. I collect Zuni carved
fetishes -- and the photo is one of mine, carved by a Zuni artist.
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