When She Goes Out to Plow --Bonnie Jo Campbell She ties the boy in his crib, though he’s too big for the crib, after nursing, though he is too big to nurse. Her husband has gone out to trade whatever men trade at the café. It’s planting time on her dead father’s farm, and she married the handsomest man who made her hurt the most. She still feels breathless when he walks in and smiles. It’s too cold for the boy to sit on the tractor with her, no babysitter in this godforsaken place. Her mama didn’t live to teach her to fashion solutions for the flesh of her flesh. Her instinct for breast feeding surprised her. She has known only this fertile soil, the way this stretch of the clay earth breaks into hard clumps to allow absurd entry of seed, and the way rain can soften or wash away. She once watched a tornado turn a wooden barn into a dance of planks and loose hay. She used to wear her hair around her shoulders and now her husband stays away all night. Today she plows, and each time the old one-story house comes into her sights, her breasts ache, strands of hair tear free and whip her. http://thesmokingpoet.tripod.com/summer2009/id20.html http://www.bonniejocampbell.com/booksandstories.html --

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