American Minority Literature

November

by Linda Hogan

For Meridel LeSueur

The sun climbs down

the dried out ladders of corn.

Its red fire walks down the rows.

Dry corn sings, Shh, Shh.

The old sky woman has opened her cape

to show off the red inside

like burning hearts

holy people enter.

I will walk with her.

We are both burning.

We walk in the field of dry corn

where birds are busy gleaning.

The corn says, Shh.

I walk beside the pens holding animals.

The old woman sun rises,

red, on the backs of small pigs.

She rides the old sow

down on her knees in mud.

Her prayers do not save her.

Her many teats do not save her.

I won't think of the butcher walking away

with blood on his shoes,

red footprints of fire. In them

the sow walks away from her own death

The sun rides the old sow

like an orange bird on its back.

God save the queen.

Her castle rises in the sky and crumbles.

She has horses the color of wine.

The little burgundy one

burns and watches while I walk.

The rusty calves watch with dark eyes.

The corn says, Shh,

and birds beat the red air

like a dusty rug. They sing

God save the queen.

My hair bums down my shoulders.

I walk. I will not think we are blood sacrifices.

No, I will not watch the ring‑necked pheasant

running into the field of skeletal corn.

I will walk into the sun.

Her red mesas are burning

in the distance. I will enter them.

I will walk into that stone,

walk into the sun

away from night rising up the other side of earth.

There are sounds in the cornfield,

 Shh. Shh.