M A I Z E

on

Nothing comes into my room at night except the snake that slithers under the door, and he only arrives due to a case of mistaken identity. We may as well be old neighbors, telling each other the same stories over tea and crumpets.

He keeps insisting I exchange Bob for apples and I keep explaining that I wear dentures and that while they work for Bob, they don’t work for apples. But he persists and has even gone so far as to offer permanent teeth, which led to a circular argument, where I explained I was already armed to the teeth.

All of our conversations have been ridiculous, me speaking slowly to match his crawl, and him hissing loudly to match my frustration. After a few weeks of this, we finally agreed to disagree, and I invited him over for dinner and asked him to bring dessert. It was no surprise that he arrived with a pouch of applesauce tied to his tail.

I went to Bob and tattled, so now our baby uses his tail as a rattle. When she visits me at night now, I tell her about what a hard worker her father was, and how I could see him in every detail of her forked tongue smile.

She’s my firstborn child of the corn, and her name is Hot Cold Baby Maize.