Julia McConnell

She sits in the cutter’s high seat
turned away from the machine’s wheel
her muscled forearms tanned
dark against the rolled up sleeves
of her men’s white shirt buttoned
at the collar. Men’s blue jeans, too,
cuffed over her heavy leather boots.
Her hand rests on her knee
a cigarette between her fingers.
It is the end of day.

The photographer on the ground
one of her sisters,
most likely, in this all girl
detasseling crew
points the camera
so that she is framed
against the freedom
of the wide sky.

In just this moment after pulling
the break, killing the engine,
and lighting up, she shares
a laugh while staring into
the middle distance.

She’s earned it, this little
bit of peace having completed
a long day of men’s labor
the fields of corn
a satisfying tally.

For just a few minutes more
before it’s time to move
on home and cook supper
she is no one’s wife
no one’s daughter or mother
she is simply Helen
finishing her cigarette.
Foreman of the crew.