PenWomanShip

On August afternoons, when it’s too hot
to continue threshing, farm women
pressing crabapples into jelly leave the boiled
lids and jars to cool on the kitchen counter and
make their way upstairs to bedrooms with
oval rag rugs scattered over waxed floors and
drawn oil skin blinds. Pale naked men
with sun-burned necks wait in the dim light
at the foot of quilted beds, bum cheeks clenched,
crossed shyly. The comfort waiting there,
the sweet scent of pressed apples.