The Maize

corn mazes always scared me as a kid, and i never went through the ones where Freddy Kruger is chasing you either.

it's autumn:

and that means cider, apple pickings, corn mazes-

(corn maizes, you chuckle).

bag of freshly-picked

galas, honeycrisps, jonathans in hand,

you pay admission to the maize maze.

your friends stick behind,

and you joke with them for being wimps,

for not wanting to get lost for an afternoon

in the shape of the state you're in.

so in you go, not noticing that the apples

already begin to rot

until you approach a mirror.

strange, you think, but laugh at your shape

in the looking-glass, all puffed out and squat.

it's harder to walk as you turn away, and the corn seems higher.

the next mirror makes you sky-high,

gives you a vantage point.

the apples stink.

you drop them.

they splat against the ground.

by now you run through the maze,

so deep inside you can't see the ticket booth.

f**k.

you trip over another mirror, shatter it.

f**k.

exhausted, you finally stumble out of the maze, 

but at least you have

the correct number of everything, including inches.

but there's no one waiting for you.

ten minutes later, you realize all your contacts

are disconnected, 

numbers changed. 

with horror you see the year: 

a decade exactly since you went in.

back in town (you had to walk),

your friends recoil in horror

as does your mother:

they all remember your funeral,

they all have seen the cornstalks

growing over your grave.

and you smirked a little, showing

just a couple teeth:

some white, and some yellow;

and then you bade your loved ones

to come over to your field sometime.