SATURDAYS

It’s seven in the morning and the smell of spicy chorizo frying—invades my dream. Near the kitchen I hear my little sister reciting the catechism to my grandmother, blessed art thou amongst women and blessed is the fruit of thy womb. My mother cracks the eggs into the pan of cibola and green serrano chilies. The smoky burning smells of tortillas cooking on the comal finally awaken me; soon we will eat before heading to a long day of work in the apple orchard again. I lie on the couch and dream a little longer, dressed and ready for work, but not really. I want to stay home today; I want to sit on my porch and read Lorca, Machado, César Vallejo to the cars as they pass. Mijo ven a comer, I hear in the far off distance, Ven a comer, the words call to me, I dream of walking the streets of Paris and my melancholy death in the year ahead, as I lay dying on the Champs-Elysées, suddenly a pantufla bounces off my forehead and abruptly I am standing in my living room, rubbing my head as I see my mother walk back to kitchen grumbling to herself flojo.

THE CANAL

In August

night cools the fields

we run to the water

and jump into the long canal

near rows of strawberries

and almond trees

like little brown fish

we laugh and bathe

in the orange moonlight

trying to wash the day’s grease 

and dust from our bones

contented I fall under a

sea of shadows and starlight

then I am sad 

the season will turn

cold and we will leave

soon I will be

kneeling

shivering

in the used water

we all share

near the packing shed

at dusk as the sun falls

upon us in the migrant camp.