So this is like a yearly thing, she shouted.
Yeah, he shouted. Long as I can remember. The folks who own this field. Pagans, I think, and he laughed. He glanced from her to the flatbed, then up at the sky. It usually rains, but tonight is real clear. You can see the stars.
Oh yeah, she said. She took his arm in hers. Here turn this way. She pulled him around to the right, backs to the flatbed. She spoke into his ear. See those three really bright stars?
I’m not sure. I guess so.
Those three really big bright ones, she said and traced her finger against the sky. The triangle. See it?
He squinted. All he could think was her body pressed to his body. Yeah. I see it, he said, and pointed with her. A triangle.
The one that’s farthest right is Vega, she said. It’s like the brightest star in the constellation. Lyra that is. The lyre. And the one that’s farthest left is Altair Altair is the eye of Aquila. That’s the eagle. See the stars that form the wings and the tail?
He nodded and watched her profile. He raised his beer to his lips. Squeezed the mud between his toes. He said And what’s the third star?
That’s Deneb. It’s one of the top ten brightest stars and the highest tip of the Northern Cross. She shook his arm and pointed. See the cross?
He looked up. He cleared his throat. Yeah, he said.
Some people call the Northern Cross Cygnus but I kind of look at them as two constellations laid over each other, she said. The lowest tip of the Cross kind of forms the eye of Cygnus or the swan in case you didn’t know.
Yes, he said.
And the wings go out past the arms of the Cross. Cygnus and Aquila swim past each other in the Milky Way.
Cool, he said. Her perfume smelled like flowers.
Stars are cool, she said, and the music rose, voices shouted, hands clapped. You know what I really like about stars? He shook his head. Stars mean life after death, she said.
How do you figure? he said.
The so-called experts tell us the light we see up there is all that’s left of the stars because the stars died a long time ago. But we’ll be worm shit a thousand times over before the light of those stars fades out. So who’s outlived who?
Guess I hadn’t thought of it that way, he said. Her perfume. Daffodils.
Stars go way beyond time the way we know time she said. They blink and we’re gone. Stars are immortal.
He said, Guess they’re like, the closest thing we have to gods.
And nothing bothers the star, she said. While life fucks us over down here throwing in all these twists and turns and sucking us dry the star doesn’t change it doesn’t feel. It’s got bigger things to think about it’s above it all the whole rat race thing. You could be watching TV or working drive up or having sex or getting axe murdered and the stars don’t even blink.
He said, Nothing astounds the stars.
Exactly, she said. What I would give to be a star. What I would give not to feel.
They drank more beer, scored a couple joints, drifted beneath the drift of the stars, drifted among the bodies, the smoke off the bonfire and smell of roasted meat, mud cool between the toes. He and the girl watched the shapes bend and kick around and around the fire.
She said, So you ever going to ask me to dance?
Cornstalks rose behind her. The flames of the bonfire flickered in her glasses. What? he said and his head spun and the music all around.
She laughed and slipped her arm through his. I said I really really love this song and I think you should dance with me. It’s a party after all isn’t it?
He scratched the stubble on his throat. She was close, her skin against his hand the smell of her perfume. Manikin of daffodil. I don’t really dance, he said and raised his beer to his mouth. The cup was empty.
Don’t be shy, she said.
I don’t. I mean, I’m not. I’m not a very good dancer.
She dropped her cup to the ground. She took his cup from him and dropped his cup. We’re not on TV, she said. And there are no judges. And this is a slow song. Slow songs are easy. You move real slow.
No, that’s okay, really, no thanks, but she pulled him through the bodies, beckoned him away from the bonfire, toward the dead and dying corn. She faced him and pulled his arms around her. She rocked her hips side to side. Arms over his shoulders, she snapped her fingers to the music, and they turned, feet brushing, he swayed with her toward the harvested stalks, surrounded by movement and shouts and laughter. Bodies tumbled Sandbags from the corn. Bodies danced and kicked up mud. Mud on ankles, shins. Mud across bared bellies, thighs.
See this isn’t so bad now is it, she said. Leaves adrift in her eyes. Stars adrift in her eyes.
No, he said and laughed. She pulled him hard against her body, her thighs, her breasts. His arms tightened around her. He tilted his face toward the sky, saw her spread those thighs in the corn. Saw shadows of the stalks on her face. Saw corn ripen among the red splinters in her eyes. And sheaves of wheat, and apples, pears. Saw her legs and arms wrapped around him, darkness cool beneath the soil. Her breath on his throat. He did not know if he should kiss this person. He did not know this person. He did not know.
Head thrown too far back, drunk and adrift, he was falling. His head snapped forward and he slipped in the mud. Shit he said and fell clutching at her, fell so his hands slid behind her thighs, fell so his face pressed into her belly. Soft. Oh, soft. The girl laughed and pushed him and stepped away. He sank forward on his hands and knees. She wagged a finger at him and turned away. Arms out, she spun in circles toward the stalks, circles away from the bright yellow firelight, circles beneath the stars.
She clapped her hands and stamped her feet. She scraped her fingers up her muddy thighs, her fingers upward over cutoffs and belly. Rubbed her palms over her breasts. Jackfruit and rose apple, hazelnut and roasted yam, soiled hands that grasped ruddy ears of corn. Her arms flashed overhead, hips swaying as to sloes ripe on the blackthorn, in sheepskin, in barley water, in communion She inseparate of the corn She a stalk was trembled rhythmic whetstones clashed on scythe blades, Body swayeing to the threshing songe, Ge’s a peat t‘burn the witch, surely a witch, surely a Corn maiden, an oat goddess, rye witch and wheat mother, the one not to be named, She in woman, in moon, in grain, Did she beckon or did she answer a call? Was there somewhere a grave cracked like an egg Scattered earth sole remnant of the one who lay sleeping? Awakened by stags barking to their harems of hinds, awakened by adders birthing young among spent cornfields, awakened by rude dolls weaved from sheaves, by blackberry fool and hedgerow jam Garlic and sapphires to the mud Stalks done scythed and gathered in stooks, spent stalks gathered as straw, straw to the fire, and ferns, and birch tree, and furze, she was corn dancing, she was dancing corn, he a herdsman drunken stunned at the body askew on the threshing floor, stunned by the furious flail dance, by hazel wands, by hen plants, order and valour conquered by enchantment, by enchainments of desire unresolved in time past or time present, yet surely harvested among the stars.
Take five everyone, Cam’s voice crackled from the speakers. Bodies slumped to the plowed soil. Smoke drifted over the corn. The girl moved toward him,
