Husk, Pluck, Comb.

At some point I husk myself.

Peel back green leaves and

shimmy out my hair,

ready to share a few kernels of goodness.

I act as a martyr.

Slow roasted, broken in half

Skewed and buttered up

to be devoured

Eventually all the gold bits

get plucked or popped,

leaving a graveyard of

catacomb pocked cobs.

Only then are my naïve leaves

gathered and carefully reassembled.

Knotted joints morph into a makeshift body

and loose hairs comb back into a stringy braid.

Shaped into a crisp doll

I sleep in the cellar,

A dried out memory

for my mother.