She’s awful pretty. Like a dream, you might say. Those arms and legs of hers, shapely but firm to the touch. Strong. Dependable. With that body, she won’t give out on a man.
First time Ty caught a glimpse, he said, ‘She ain’t no American girl.’ Maybe so. Even he can’t deny she works these Iowa fields better than any home-grown chattel. From dawn until twilight, she’s out there doing what needs to be done. So, I said to him, ‘Come harvest, we’ll see who’s best satisfied.’
I’m watching her, standing out there in the field. Stalks hit her thighs and waist, but she don’t flinch. The sun dips low, caws fade into a grasshopper singsong. Those bug boys sawing over and back. The ladies can’t resist it.
I crack open a cold one. My sweet valentine. That long hair, smooth as corn silk. Her blue-sequin dress catching a few last rays. Specks of shimmer, frightening to some. Flickers of promise to me.
When the sky goes dusky, I’ll slip her off the post, give her a puff of new breath if she’s gone slack, then we’ll tussle between rows in dirt that’s still warm from the day. And sometimes, all going right, air whooshes through her and just at the end, I’ll hear her sweet sigh.
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First published in Fictive Dream (February, 2021).
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