Migrant Workers on an Organic Farm
Among the patches of watermelon, turnips, and tomatoes,
big talk is growing.
The workers gather on hands and knees,
toes digging into the soft soil.
This is not a family farm.
The workers pass through
coming from different directions
only to meet temporarily.
I volunteered to be here.
A man dangling a wet butt from his lower lip,
mutters, and waves his hands
with a conductor’s purpose
to show how he feels on the subject.
The slender pods snap from their stems,
as the workers move down the beds,
talking about what’s troubling them.
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The sun beats on my back and I’m offered a new raw
recipe, which I grab with a dirt-caked right hand.
A friendly, sexually bipartisan woman
shares worry about public water
and her baby boy.
One patch harvested, we move to the southern end of the farm,
and with immigration, and border control, we finish up the maiz.
As the sun rises, we rotate east to the barren
desserts of Iraq, and pull purple-tinted figs from their leafy hijabs.
As I am new to their circle, they ask if I’m frightened.
I laugh away their concern, but in truth I wonder how cabbage heads
and ears of corn,
could act on their words?
One thoughtful-wrinkled man,
joins in the conversation with starts and stops,
and we nod in respect.
I did understand,
when an osprey circled above,
and he looked up and called it
our guardian spirit.
A call for break moves us to the shade,
where a young guy in tatters splurges
on turkish figs, and shares,
and pungent tobacco drifts from
hand-rolled cigs, in the silent
understanding, and the serious
old man saunters off
a few paces, and relieves himself.
xo,
LA
