This poem isn’t about sunsets and sunrise
or landscapes and otherwise.
It’s about the blood of grapes and hard
labor, sweat, and bone in scorching fields,
accompanied by cheap wages for picking
pounds and pounds of cotton and grapes.
Wine grapes that were processed with
It’s about blood-speckled white afro puffs
being picked for Rodeo Drive clothing
It’s about white afro puffs being picked to
the hymns of harmonicas bought in Texas
for twenty-five cents.
It’s about whore rates for seamstresses
working twelve hours straight,
blood from Dust Bowl survivors.
like cattle packed in tents with grit.
It’s solely about the perspective of a
city chick to country parents,
but not country like down in the Mississippi
but Central California country.
This poem is no click of your boots to the
Midwest type of Oz.
This poem is about the heartland of
about bodies in fields, picking green grapes
with black hands.
I siphon whiskey from these grapes,
and now I am drunk with
the Kings River Blues.