NAPA

     Beyond the hacienda, the worker labors over
the vines

     Haunching slowly ! then breathlessly pulling
at the fruit before quickly rising and steadying
himself against the line.

     He does not rest long. Again ! slowly down,
pulling ! then up and steadying.
El Verano I heard them call it ! summertime
in Napa.

     Burnt by the sun, quemado por el sol, the
older man’s skin was a shade lighter than
black coffee.
     I am sure it was once tea stained ! a
summer picking from San Juan Capistrano
to Viejo turned him darker.

     Three younger men on another vine
picked quicker.
     Their shirts were blue and white and dashed
with indigo stains from the grapes ! with
baskets full, they stopped.

     Inside the hacienda, the fruit was emptied
and the men washed their hands.

     I saw the older man’s hands ! they were
blistered ! the little edges of his skin peeled
away from the pads of his fingers and
bled.

     I traced their backs ! emptying the
Baskets.
     The spines curled and straightened and then
strengthened.

     I walk behind the workers in the village !
they whisper as they go !
/Mi amigo, qeu camino est mi casa?’

     The olives drop from the trees onto the
pavement,
     Rotting beneath my feet–les olivas.

     Down San Yisidro–to the ghetto–their
sunset shimmered on shack roofs and
burned their cheeks,
     Their sweat smeared my hands, los
manos.

- Sarah Smith