I'm shucking corn in high heels,
trying to maintain my composure.
I wasn't meant to be a farmer's wife.
Adam's gone mad, hoards lint in his navel.
He smells like dirt, not the rich, dark soil
sold in plastic bags at Walmart,
but side of the road dirt,
dusty and stale as bread.
I can't tell you how many days
the sun has risen and set
and yet he refuses to bathe.

I'm meant to live in a house on a hill,
surrounded by lush gardens.
I picture myself bare breasted, daisy chains
around my waist, small cherubs
spoon feeding me lemon sorbet.
My ears crave the sound of falling water
and I don't mean this leaky kitchen faucet
whose drips I count like sheep. I ask Adam
each morning to pick up a new washer,
but he has more important things.
He claims I'm to blame for this life
of tin trailers and sagging clotheslines.
I'm the reason he goes out day and night
to chase away serpents coiled in his fields.