The rows stretched long
across the ground.
Green orbs in the squinting sun.
The heat stifled:
a blanket of molasses,
but the promise of money
was too bright to ignore.
We stood,
sacks in hand,
sweat already in beads.
The heads came willingly
at first,
but the sun beat us bloody.
Exhaustion came quickly.
The sackes were lead.
The lettuce:
boulders.
Our eyes met knowlingly,
burnt by sweat.
We left our bags in the rows
and sought other work
further down the road.
Wednesday, June 23, 2010
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2 comments:
This is a bastardized version of a story that my Grandpa told me when I was a kid. He came out to California to work, but this job just wasn't worth it.
I am thinking about writing a collection about the stories that my Grandparents told me when I was a kid. I have a few, but I want to make sure that I do them justice. Irena was telling me some time ago that this might be a good project for me. What do you guys think?
I love the stories you're telling with your poems, and this one offers an intimate snippet of the immigrant experience. My favorite image: "The lettuce: / boulders." I feel the weight in these leafy greens here, and the end resonates all the more because of it.
Your poems on or inspired by your grandfather is a well of poetry for you, bud. I can definitely see you working your grandparents' stories into a powerful collection. Keep them coming!
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