Harvest

My family split up in the cornfield.
God knows why. I called my stepfather
Daddy at eleven years old,
paired off with him in the maze.
The sun went down and Daddy stopped
on the muddy path, unzipped his leather jacket, swallowed
me into the mask of brown cologne and stiff animal skin.
His arm bore down the neck of my coat, shirt, wiry
hairs tickling my collarbone and chin, his stone hand reaped my
    chest—
the year’s fruit in his palm. He gathered
me to him, his cold erection pawing my spine.
Mom could have been an acre away,
or doe-still behind the next stalk.
My straw body lifted with her husband’s groans, fell with his sigh.
Whatever he found reaching for my underwear
almost made him weep.
God knows why.