Haying

When the valley seared and the farmer down
the road was short-handed, he paid me two
dollars a day to drive the flat-bed up and down
cut and dried field rows. Shirtless boys followed,
lifting and high stacking scratchy bales. But
I was there for the down-shifting, the play
in the brake, my pipedream, mirage rippling
up from the engine block running hot while
grasshoppers latched to the dash and the braids
in my hair. Drumbeats from too much sun
pounded in my ears reminding me that my
father had wanted only sons. I was keeping
time and double-clutching to heavy metal
playing on the 8 track. I was better at it
than any tractor boy.

Georganna Millman lives in the Catskill Mountains. She has her BA from Skidmore College and her MFA from VCFA. She has published two chapbooks and her poetry has appeared in many publications.