A few city girls betray us,

blow smoke rings with Camels,

 

choke back laughter

in a corn row.

 

Those of us counting on a paycheck

pick up the slack, pull tassels

 

in rows of female white corn

for hybrid varieties.

 

The next morning at first light

we wade up to our knees

 

in icy well water

in a field that has been flooded all night.

 

Our punishment’s a sinking feeling

of numbness,

 

something we mock

by naming it quick mud.

 

There’s nowhere to step

in a quagmire.

 

Some quit; some stay on.

Some never come back.

 

We pray for dry land to appear,

for a mile-long row to end.

 

We live to never wish

field work on another.