tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11271668.post-1110808106452430102005-03-14T08:38:00.000-05:002005-07-29T08:13:55.366-04:00<strong>1924</strong><br />When the only work is packing tomatoes<br />you put your daughter in a long dress <br />and pull a hat down over her face<br />so they can’t tell she’s only eight,<br />because five cents a pail isn’t much,<br />but at least they hire Italians.<br /><br /><br /><br /><strong>Pokey and Nat</strong><br />Natalie wears green every day <br />and socks only on Sunday.<br />“Got ta dress for Jesus”, she says, <br />tossing her head like the women <br />who argue with their men about other women.<br /><br />Her arms are exactly the color of pecan shell, <br />but soft, and ashy at the elbows. <br />I like the way they tumble in the mirror <br />when she’s fixing my hair for braids. <br /><br />“Pokey,” she says, “gonna give you some <em>nice</em> braids today”, <br />and I think maybe today. <br />Maybe today,<br />maybe today, <br />but I open my eyes to the same scrappy rabbit-hair as always. <br /><br />The gumball barrettes clacking around her head <br />are what get me thinking that Natalie is too much for one body.<br />It’s her crammed in self that comes busting out <br />all wild like joy in her laugh and her voice <br />and her eyes that can’t nothin hide from,<br /><br />and her past is the only thing quiet about her.<br /><br /><a href="http://www.sallybacchetta.com/" target="_blank">Sally Bacchetta</a> 2004<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/11271668-111080810645243010?l=sallypoetry.blogspot.com'/></div>Sally Bacchettahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14765341603688023981noreply@blogger.com1