Kevin M Davis Poet Prose

Detasseling, 1965

Detasseling, 1965
Kevin Davis 2024

At dawn we gathered— first-timers, veterans, boys and girls in clothes already tired from other chores. The fields waited, silvered with dew, and we waited too, for the moment we would prove ourselves.

Garbage bags over our legs, we laughed at the absurdity until the cold wet corn slapped our shins and the joke made sense. The crew leader’s voice carried over the rows: Right side only. Cut the tassels. Male from female. One seed becoming another.

So we walked— row after row, stalks cracking like old bones, knives flicking tassels free. Morning soaked us, midday wrung us out again. Breath came thick. Pride kept us upright.

At ten we collapsed in the shade beneath the truck and wagon, ate fast, slept faster, rose again because the field still asked for us. Some left. None were blamed. Those who stayed moved slower but did not stop.

I went home each night sunburned, starving, falling into bed before the sheets cooled. Yet every morning I rose— a little stronger, a little more certain that I was earning something more than a dollar an hour.

By week’s end we were a crew, bound by sweat and stubbornness, friends made in the long green corridors of corn. I left with money in my pocket, a pat on the back, and the quiet knowledge that I had done a hard thing well.

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