Drowning in Corn

Dec 9 2014

The worst way to go
must be drowning in corn.

You misstep, on the rim
and fall into the bin
of golden kernels, swirling in.
A rush of corn

ears plugged, face flush,

ribs crushed

as you hunger for air.

Where swimming
just pulls you down deeper,
digging in
to its rich abundance,
even further under
the weight of grain.

In the 5 minutes you have left

would the banality
of such a death
fill you with remorse, regret
annoyance?
Or anger
to have given your life
to starch
cattle feed
high-fructose sweetener?

And if they managed to pluck you out
before it all went black
would you suffocate the rest of your life,
nightmares of being crushed,

an incubus

of dread?

If we don't die young

every close call scars us.

Broken bodies
abraded and flayed,
skin marked
with the hard keloid
of irreversible age.

And if we do

who knew
corn could be lethal?
A single insignificant slip
do us in?

I read this unusual piece in The Atlantic On-Line: http://www.theatlantic.com/health/archive/2014/12/drowning-in-corn/383455/

I thought Drowning in Corn would be a commentary on the ubiquity of corn in our diet, the commodification and industrialization of food. Or perhaps something about over-eating, the temptations of abundance. But was surprised to read on and realize that it was actually literal. That you could drown in corn the way you could be sucked into quicksand, as in the adventure comics or cheesy black-and-white TV of our youth: once you touched the stuff, you were a goner.

I thought I could make something metaphorical our of this. Or something oddball, drily amusing, unexpected. But the article was serious and tragic and real -- the incident itself, as well as the subsequent PTSD -- and I couldn't get away from that by making fun. So I'm not sure what this poem is, or how it will be read, or even should be read.

But as I mentioned in the commentary following my last poem (Missed Plane), I like toying with this idea of contingency: the missed step, the minor decision, the innocent intersection that leads to grave, or even lethal, consequence. (Or, for the optimists among us, love and riches!) That life is not so much fate, as accident; and that our conceit of agency and control is just that. So for me, the most telling word in the entire poem is "banality".

Of course, it's hardly the worst way to go: I can think of a lot more horrible deaths. But I needed a good opening line to hook the reader. So we'll call it poetic license, and leave it at that.

The second last stanza might seem unrelated; so it will make a little more sense if I point out that it comes from this, in the Atlantic piece:

"Beneath the corn, the skin dimples from the kernels like a golf ball. The body’s blood will begin to settle in the tissues in the lowest gravitational part of the body—the legs and feet if upright—creating a purplish hue—livor mortis."

There's also a shift from 2nd person to 1st in that stanza. I think this works because it allows the writer's voice to reach out to the reader. The poem becomes a bit more reflective and detached, and both of them are now in this together.

I think the test of a good poem is not only that you want to revisit it, but that on each re-reading it opens up. I doubt this poem will do either. But it was fun to write; and sometimes, that's all you get.