Piece Work, and: Inside the Wind

Cooper 39 M. Truman Cooper Piece Work The sulfur house stopped breathing smoke about half an hour before quitting time. Almost at once, our coughing loosened. At a long sink near the dehydration chamber, we lined up to rinse fruit juice out of the numerous lacerations of the day. Even the best cutters sent a rosy swirl, exactly the color of dreams, washing over the porcelain. We'd see the dried apricots of summer wrapped in clear plastic at the market. The bags had yellow suns printed on them, round fat lies and something shriveled inside. No amount of sugar in pie could hide the flavor of the dry-yard from us, brimstone and the hot dust of the San Joaquin Valley, the taste of blood from the fingers of children put to work too soon, the metallic tang of sharp souls grown dull from pitting, from striking the edges on stone. After the apricots came the peaches, bigger fruit, faster money, but not a fair bargain—never quite a decent wage. Most of us followed the season north, through the pears and apples, our route marked out by the names of packing sheds as if it were the line of travel for a cruise. We lived with knives in our hands. 40 the minnesota review M. Truman Cooper Inside the Wind for David I have found them, the invisible ones, people you and I used to wonder about during all those talks in your office. Your hands cupped around sugared coffee while your words went seeking the cane cutters and the bean pickers and the unseen others whose labor or ill-health makes the world nervous. Maybe they heard us. Maybe their cries are the lead edge of the storm that swept me away from my life and now has come for you as well. My friend, let go of hands that would hold you in one place. They will snap at the wrist and blow free in any case. Forget the sound of splitting wood. It is only a house exploding into splinters and you dare not think how it might be yours. You have become one of the secrets the dark cloud hides, tumbling according to its whims and part of its precious rubble. To survive, ride inside the wind, rigged like a winged seed swirling its tough sail. The currents might favor you. Lean into the power of injury and it might lift you into its center, dropping you among us, your husk shredded and useless, your soul opening its solid eyes to look upon the lost, your original family. We embrace every arrival in this amazing circle of sunlight and quiet, walled in though we are by the rumble of disaster. Your life will be simple once you're here. We'll teach you how to loot the calm and to walk, strangely whole, through wreckage. ...