Penelope

She sits, rocking, on the front porch,
Snapping tough green beans into sections,
Dropping them one, two, three
Into the wooden bowl between her skirt-covered knees.
Her hands, the color of the barn floor,
Look surprisingly nimble.
The beans make pleasant thumps in the bowl. The rocking chair
Creaks with each push off the ground.
The setting sun stops just short of her slippered
Feet and illuminates a dragonfly’s wings hovering
Above the front stairs. She watches
The lacy wings with casual fascination, working in the rhythm
Of pick, snap-snap-snap, drop.

She gazes at the bobbing insect and thinks:
She needs to fry more chicken. Get some biscuits in the oven.
The field workers are like hungry
Dogs waiting outside the kitchen.
She always serves them quietly, using the plates she’s had
Since her wedding day. Cold lemonade, a drumstick
And a hot biscuit with dripping honey.
Reaching hands and loud men talk. Lewd laughs. Dirty dishes
And dirty boots. The same every day.
They eat, compliment her dress, nudge one another
Then leave.

Her mind focuses on the place the dragonfly has been.
It has zipped away, scared off by a dust cloud. Someone
Is coming up the drive. His face is weathered, and
His shoes look worn out, as if he has
Trod more roads and fields than she can imagine.
She waits for him to stop at the bottom of the steps,
And introduce himself. But he doesn’t. She stops mid-snap
When she realizes – it’s him.
He slowly climbs the old stairs, shuffles across the porch
And gives her a tired nod. He pushes open the screen door
And goes inside to wash up for supper.
She snap-snap-snaps the final bean.
Moves the wooden bowl from the cradle of her legs
To the cradle of her left arm. Rises to go
Ask him about his day.