Sara Borjas


Sara Borjas is a Fresno poet. Her interests include space and time, memory, aromatics, cocktails as poems, tiny prints and oldiez. She currently lectures in the Department of Creative Writing at UC Riverside and lives in Los Angeles.

Fresno Field

         after Rick Barot


                  Out of frontage road. Out of
the fence flopped to the west. Onto the rows
horizoning the earth's still dust like corduroy.
On one side, almond trees and pistachios
and worker housing with spray painted ads like
truck and mobers and an ocean eventually.
On the other side orange groves and aqueducts
and hills crumbling more and more into mountain.
Trucks. Dogs. Oldiez. Dusk. As many songs
as there are silences. As many boots on their feet
as there are people piled into the back of a pick-up.
Cracked windshields. Paletas. Restaurants run
by one woman, & one man. The alfalfa field
remaining mysterious. The junk in their yards
rich as light breaking over the crest of the Nevadas,
morning saxaphoning its own desire among kinglets.

                           What was I talking about,
talking about the place of the political in poems, the students
scibbling down what I said to them. That you have to turn
your life over like a tortilla on the comal & apply the heat.
What you don't know about what you do know is that
you will always leave it out. Somehow it always makes
its way into the weakest lines. Now, these cupboards
of pristine pots. Water feeding the lawn all day long.
Engines hot on the drive way. Waves rising from the road
like child ghosts. The car turning into the sudden pang
of what you think is freedom. The mind going over &
over the same day knowing what to do with it and never
doing it, knowing what comes next, and reaching, always,
for something else.