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Patrice
Shoaff
Harvest |
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By the age of fifteen,
I drove combine.
Too young, all the neighbors said. And a girl.
My much older brother drove the Jimmy.
This took more muscle, but fewer skills.
When my sister wasn't running away,
She was practicing slitting her wrists.
Father said: "Like
this. It's all in the wrists.
Just bump this lever here, and the combine
Header will drop. Don't let it get away
From you. You can't muscle it. You're a girl.
You'll never have strength; though maybe some skills.
Scoot over now. Let me drive the Jimmy."
Mother said: "Did
you hear about Jimmy
Linger? It seems he caught one of his wrists
In the sickle. Even a doctor's skills
Couldn't fix his hand. He won't drive combine
Anymore. You knew he was seeing a girl?
I guess they won't be running away
Together now. Here.
Put these towels away
In the other bathroom. You knew Jimmy,
Didn't you? Of course, you were just a girl
Then. "I looked at my sister's blue-veined wrists
Bound in linen bracelets. How to combine
Such courage with such cowardice? What skills
Were needed to face fear head on? What skills
Were needed to face life while running away
From it? I drove to the field, to the combine.
My brother followed me in the Jimmy.
When I bumped the levers, I used my wrists.
The land would go to my brother, not a girl.
My mother sighed:
"I wish he'd meet a girl
And settle down. One with a housewife's skills."
I looked again at my sister's cut wrists,
At the lengthwise slits, then I looked away
And thought about a girl who'd suit Jimmy
Who'd sacrificed his hand to the combine.