MRS. MITSUNAGA AND THE COVER SEED GANG

Mrs. Mitsunaga—
pink kerchief, lauhala hat, white safety hat,
long sleeved cotton shirt, denim jacket,
and blue jeans tucked into black rubber boots—
walks the endless rows of cane field,
field after field after field.
Hoe handle shortened for custom fit, blade scarred,
Mrs. Mitsunaga and the cover seed gang,
cover tens of thousands
foot long stalks of sugar cane, exposed seed,
not covered by the mechanical planter.

At nine o’clock break,
Mrs. Mitsunaga sits on a paper bag,
nibbles manju and mochi from Tupperware containers;
chats with Tata Udac, Hanoa and Hanky—
fellowship in the vastness of sugar fields.
Fifteen minutes later,
she stands; they stand. Start again.
Hoe held with both hands, horizontally across her legs,
the blade falls, rises, falls, rises.
A trail of freshly turned dirt follows behind her
as she quickly works across the field.

Too steep for the mechanical planter,
Mrs. Mitsunaga and the gang,
cut into the hillside, feet planted with confidence.
Dig, carry, cover.
Dig, carry, cover.
Armfuls of sugar stalk. Bin full of sugar stalk.
Parallel mounds of dirt line the incline.

Too rocky for machinery,
Mrs. Mitsunaga and the gang, place the stalk in rows,
then cover the seed with piles of stone and traces of soil.
Carry the seed; place the seed; cover with rocks.
Carry the seed; place the seed; cover with rocks.