Female Quota Under Construction

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She's strapped to a four-inch girder
like a skydiver to a parachute.
Hard hat too big, pipe wrench too small.
Thirty feet below, the Toutle River is sulphur-silt green,
framed by the skeleton they're riding;
Mt. St. Helens bridge number nine.

The journeyman laughs at her, refusing to fly,
huddled, worthless, fumbling for tools
she doesn't know the name of.
"Fiberglass will wreck your elbow," he says.
"You need a wooden hammer,
sixteen ounces, till you've got a better arm."

Un-harnessed, he sails a sheet of plywood
off his back, lands it inches from her knees.
She lurches, rocks, lunges for the safety chain.
"Are you afraid of heights?" the foreman asks.
Muddy, bearded carpenters laugh.
She wore clean, yellow, rain gear,
just-bought tools. "We're gonna be finding out today," he says.

At lunchtime, Harley unbuckles her nail belt,
leads her to the work truck.
Hail on the windshield blanks out
the gray-rimmed crater.
It's Paul Harvey, whiskey and cigarettes.
"In a month you'll be sinking sixteen -pennies
in three swings," he laughs,
"and borrowing my chew."