The Cornfield

By: Kassie Lamoreax

Natalie Allen shared the same birthday
as me. Her black hair shone
like a purple sun
and never frizzled like mine.
In 7th grade Social Science,
we made Najajo threaded bracelets,
a mixture of reds, yellows and browns.
I never took mine off, even in the shower.
Behind my house,
Behind the no-trespassing sign,
The cornfield whispered
to Natalie Allen. I listened and said
I heard it, too.
Before they built Wal-Mart,
we went there after school.
We collected rocks, sticks and broken
glass bottles. Labeling each with a date and signature,
we put them in a locked metal box.
During a morning run, Bobbis mom
said to Natalies mom, did you know
Jack Patterson is thinking
to sell the cornfield?
Natalie Allen cried, We cannot
Let that happen! We stomped
to the middle of the cornfield and swam
through the same tornado that took Dorothy to Oz.
We wrote our names on a gum wrapper and taped it
to the base of a humming power line
as if sticking ourselves to anything solid in a cornfield
would stop bull-dozers, Wal-Mart, and the world from spinning.