poetry EXTERIORS by Mary Harwell Sayler If you saw the woman I saw in Alabama, you might call her house a shack, not knowing the number and size of rooms has turned her home into an unpainted palace with a front porch overlooking a field where she plants one row after another with no old mule to assist her. She has only herself to count on, row after row, guiding a V-shaped plow in front of her like a big metal breastbone. Row after row, she upturns the moist earth, wearing a black leather strap slack around her neck to keep herself in line after line, looking perfectly regal.
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