corn king

This is the first freeverse I've written in a loooong time.
I look at it and sort of have to facepalm. Just look at the stupid images. It's mega obvious. And the title, of course, you know, the hopefully apocryphal pagan tradition of killing a guy and plowing him into the fields as a fertility rite, major hint. Okay, girl, we get it, you wanna get laid.

you yearn
to shuck the blankets from your knees
and finish convalescing
wobble out to glint, glossy,
nude in the golden afternoon
as the pearl-sheened kernels
under the husk.
there is enough, you know there is enough
plump succulence
nestled in the silken strands
to be both planted
and devoured
bitten into, butter-drenched
and folded into cool, dark earth
to come up young again.
I orient myself towards some pain
and look upon it, and its source, with love.
Trace how it's rooted in the forces of
repulsion and adhesion. Feel the strain
of separated things to join once more:
the wrinkled edges of a healing cut.
My answer when you're wrong about me: "but
you're wrong about me" chafes me till I'm sore,
until I stitch the separated sides
together--roughly, bloody. Good enough
to foil the flies that fresh red blood attracts.
What's torn apart is hurt, but pain abides
in distance, searing every edge that's rough
till it fits smooth as evidence fits facts.