There's something frightening about cornfields,
everyone knows. Farmers sense it, as they

inspect crops at dusk, noting the wind's soft rattle
in the stalks. If you grow just a few ears

behind your house, you'll hear doubts whisking up,
questions latent in tight rows of husks.

Should I have let them turn off the machines?
Should I have just let her go?

It's not crop circles we fear, or hidden creatures
careening through the night, but our own hesitations.

Moonlight makes every thought acute.
But we have the same history; we've all run

from the same something, breathless and exhilarated,
ancient breezes circling the farm, the yard, the house.

Jennifer Campbell

About the poet: Jennifer Campbell is an English professor in Buffalo, NY, and a co-editor of Earth's Daughters and Beyond Bones. Her first book of poetry, titled Driving Straight Through, was published by FootHills in 2008. Recent work appears in Saranac Review, Fugue, The Healing Muse, The Pedestal, New Millennium Writings, Eclipse, Slipstream, and Slant, and is forthcoming in Sow's Ear and CHEST.