for César Chávez
The wind sprays pale dirt into my mouth
The small, almost invisible scars
On my hands.
The pores in my throat and elbows
Have taken in a seed of dirt of their own.
After a day in the grape fields near Rolinda
A fine silt, washed by sweat,
Has settled into the lines
On my wrists and palms.
Already I am becoming the valley,
A soil that sprouts nothing.
For any of us.
A dry wind over the valley
Peeled mountains, grain by grain,
To small slopes, loose dirt
Where red ants tunnel.
The wind strokes
The skulls and spines of cattle
To white dust, to nothing,
Covers the spiked tracks of beetles,
Of tumbleweed, of sparrows
That pecked the ground for insects.
Evenings, when I am in the yard weeding,
The wind picks up the breath of my armpits
Like dust, swirls it
And drops it
On the ear of a rabid dog,
And I take on another life.
When you got up this morning the sun
Blazed an hour in the sky,
A lizard hid
Under the curled leaves of manzanita
And winked its dark lids.
Later, the sky grayed,
And the cold wind you breathed
Was moving under your skin and already far
From the small hives of your lungs.
At dusk the first stars appear.
Not one eager finger points toward them.
A little later the stars spread with the night
And an orange moon rises
To lead them, like a shepherd, toward dawn.
In June the sun is a bonnet of light
Little by little,
From behind a skyline of pine.
The pastures sway with fiddle-neck,
Tassels of foxtail.
A couple fish on the river’s edge,
Their shadows deep against the water.
Above, in the stubbled slopes,
Cows climb down
As the heat rises
In a mist of blond locusts,
Returning to the valley.
When autumn rains flatten sycamore leaves,
The tiny volcanos of dirt
Ants raised around their holes,
I should be out of work.
My silverware and stack of plates will go unused
Like the old, my two good slacks
Will smother under a growth of lint
And smell of the old dust
When the closet door opens or closes.
The skin of my belly will tighten like a belt
And there will be no reason for pockets.
East of the sun’s slant, in the vineyard that never failed,
A wind crossed my face, moving the dust
And a portion of my voice a step closer to a new year.
The sky went black in the ninth hour of rolling trays,
And in the distance ropes of rain dropped to pull me
From the thick harvest that was not mine.
If you go to your window
You will notice a fog drifting in.
The sun is no stronger than a flashlight.
Not all the sweaters
Hung in closets all summer
Could soak up this mist. The fog:
A mouth nibbling everything to its origin,
Pomegranate trees, stolen bicycles,
The string of lights at a used-car lot,
A Pontiac with scorched valves.
In Fresno the fog is passing
The young thief prying a window screen,
Graying my hair that falls
And goes unfound, my fingerprints
Slowly growing a fur of dust—
One hundred years from now
There should be no reason to believe
In this moment when the light starts up
In the east and rubs
The horizon until it catches fire,
We enter the fields to hoe,
Row after row, among the small flags of onion,
Waving off the dragonflies
That ladder the air.
And tears the onions raise
Do not begin in your eyes but in ours,
In the salt blown
From one blister into another;
They begin in knowing
You will never waken to bear
The hour timed to a heart beat,
The wind pressing us closer to the ground.
When the season ends,
And the onions are unplugged from their sleep,
We won’t forget what you failed to see,
And nothing will heal
Under the rain’s broken fingers.