Harvest-time v.2

[keilexandra]

A rewrite of an old poem.

She pulls it toward her,
up and away and
back again, cranking,
hefting another bucket
of well water deep
from the earth
and cold as melted snow.

She lifts the weight
with both hands,
hooks both buckets
to the yoke (strong supple
bamboo, and heavy again)
then bends her back and bows
her callused shoulders.

She stumbles past
the hut of bound bamboo
where her mother endures
her father after jiu
controls him once more.
She remembers, and the water
is not so heavy.

She walks into the sun,
destined for the farthest field
where rice lies unplanted
but carefully fermented.

She almost runs to the only
wood building, the schoolhouse
where town children count
past twenty and
make messy black splotches with
ox-hair brushes.

She never lingers,
but the water weighs down
and the bamboo yoke
bites into her back
to remind her of her place.

She is only a worthless
water-ox daughter.

She passes by the open door
and hears a boy's yelp
as the teacher's bamboo switch
swooshes down.

She wishes for the pain,
if only.

She trudges onward,
forward to the harvest-place,
though few leftovers lie
cold in precious porcelain bowls.
The men are drunk
on rice wine.

She eats the bean pudding,
and sips the last dregs of
gray hen soup,
and finds a whole
chicken bone with
meat scraps still dangling.

She savors her luck.