This Week's Guest Poet Is Rebecca Flores




Workers In The Watermelon Fields

Cicadas sing in the watermelon fields,
clear wings like prisms in the sun,
till sane, green furrows ramble in the heat,
pinch the land like a wailing accordion.

Field workers weave slow work, stooping,
cutting, hauling rows of watermelons,
watermelons, soft inside like a belly
you could stick a knife into.


Cicadas sing in the watermelon fields
and ringlets of heat dance crazy,
like gasoline fumes from a handkerchief
you sniff to get high before a dance.

The sun above is a woman,
a hot bitch under your skin,
and if you’re a man,
you work like hell beneath her,
worship her in a sweat,
slow work to the rhythm of cicadas,
in a day so long, the only sense.


copyright@2005 rebecca flores