The Weed Cutter

Earth soaked by a thunderstorm
excused us from fieldwork on a
hot muggy June morning. Time
to cut weeds in the fencerows.
‘‘Son of a bitch,’’ I said, weary
with sixteen years. Corn taller
than my head kept off the breeze,
gnats swarmed over my sweaty
face. I hung my shirt on a
fence post, whetstone in my
hip pocket to sharpen the scythe,
a jug of drinking water hidden
under grass to keep it cool.
Large hemp stalks tough as leather
I named for people I disliked
and whacked away. The neighbor’s
stupid cows stared at me across
the fence where the blade of
my scythe caught and nearly tore
my arms loose. Who would want
to be a farmer and work his ass off
on a day like this? Resentment
poured into my muscle but a nap
in the shadowy cornfield never
tempted me. As in a game
to win I swung the scythe and
conscience heavy with Father’s
orders kept the score.