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Who Gets Kissed, and: Old Orchard, and: Day-old Bread: Free

Who Gets Kissed, and: Old Orchard, and: Day-old Bread: Free WHO GETS KISSED Is a new organic, open-pollinated sweet corn variety. Also a game played at husking bees—shuck and shuck the green papyrus off the pale yellow facets, search out the red kernels to earn a kiss. The rules do not say how many players, they do not say if the winner chooses a partner or must endure the kisses of all participants. I never played the game in all my time in rural PA or anywhere in Indiana. I imagine I’d have to travel farther west, the pretty snare of flatness, miles of milled pavement and plant test plots and rare dog breeders. She lurks in the half shadow of afternoon, the one I never kissed, clean mouthed and young again, before I moved away and she got pregnant and married. Before she stopped sprinting and I spent the night. There behind the weight room, she stands next to me, checks my range of motion, twirls my arms slow and watches the shoulder rise and fall, lung and gasp. She asks me to grasp my hands behind my back— a feat neither my father nor I can perform. “Your arc is perfect for javelin,” she says. She tapes http://www.deepdyve.com/assets/images/DeepDyve-Logo-lg.png Appalachian Review University of North Carolina Press

Who Gets Kissed, and: Old Orchard, and: Day-old Bread: Free

Appalachian Review , Volume 44 (2) – Sep 11, 2016

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Publisher
University of North Carolina Press
Copyright
Copyright © Berea College
ISSN
1940-5081

Abstract

WHO GETS KISSED Is a new organic, open-pollinated sweet corn variety. Also a game played at husking bees—shuck and shuck the green papyrus off the pale yellow facets, search out the red kernels to earn a kiss. The rules do not say how many players, they do not say if the winner chooses a partner or must endure the kisses of all participants. I never played the game in all my time in rural PA or anywhere in Indiana. I imagine I’d have to travel farther west, the pretty snare of flatness, miles of milled pavement and plant test plots and rare dog breeders. She lurks in the half shadow of afternoon, the one I never kissed, clean mouthed and young again, before I moved away and she got pregnant and married. Before she stopped sprinting and I spent the night. There behind the weight room, she stands next to me, checks my range of motion, twirls my arms slow and watches the shoulder rise and fall, lung and gasp. She asks me to grasp my hands behind my back— a feat neither my father nor I can perform. “Your arc is perfect for javelin,” she says. She tapes

Journal

Appalachian ReviewUniversity of North Carolina Press

Published: Sep 11, 2016

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