The way we fight is nothing like laboring in a dress shop.
When we fight, it is like toiling in a field of Jersey corn.
Our noses are in the dirt; sweat bathes under our arms,
our heads are crowned by the hot sun
as we break up the ground and reconfigure.
We do not tread lightly on the delicate wood floors,
only pricking occasionally and bleeding hardly.
We get the soil under our fingernails.
We will farm that dirt later, blown up under a microscope.
The only thing a farming family has in common with a family of dressmakers is the end result of beautiful things – and yet, I cannot help but think that we are better made by what we plant. Seams sewn and clinched, no matter how well, may last ten years –
but the fields have been there longer.