I’m a girl, Corel, who takes serious work.
The wages I draw call my hands to the dirt—
Hunching and sweating long days under heat.
What peels my skin lures the rich to the beach.
My knuckles are raw, my nails earth-tame.
Salt cakes my forehead and kerchief the same.
The lemonade bucket I drain like a tub.
My hands pounce on lunch like a young lion cub.
Big farmers will hire big tractors to throw—
Their teeth in the soil to propagate growth.
If soon farmer Mac catches wind of this tech—
I’m sure this long season will cut our last check.
The hemlock’s our locker and place full of shade.
We all doze on roots while we wait to get paid.
That’s Pablo Picasso and that’s Cher Sherlock—
Two of my homies with nicknames that stuck.
Corsair Corel, they called me, off cuff—
When Sherlock caught me red-handing her stuff.
Our bags look alike, my honest mistake—
“But, I’d sooner take Mac’s fish from the lake!”
I argued; she laughed and shared it with Pic—
Who said I’us swelling like one pirate tick.
Old farmer Mac is proof there is good.
He pays us at sundown each day as he should.
Despite his dogs growling like thieves took their bones—
We left short of light for hot noodles back home.
I’us thankful tonight as I fell on my bed—
My eyes to the west, remembering Dad.
He worked through and through like Cher, Pic, and me—
And passed from this life, knowing unfettered sleep.
-JH
Photo Credit—Thanks to Andre Morales Kalamar @andremk_photo for making this photo available on Unsplash.
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