In the fields of my father, they grow corn, alfalfa and lettuce,
a man chases crows away from newly planted seeds,
a tractor stirs of dust,
In the fields of my father, they sprout power plants and warehouses,
a boy with a cell phone pedals by brick and cement houses,
a purple truck thump, thumps music from a stereo,
speed bumps grow like bruises.
In the fields of my father, they celebrate La Nuestra Senora de Guadalupe,
a wooden tower in front of the church spit red, green and white fire,
a devil, a drunkard, a dandy, a housewife dance with El Torito,
police dance with gangs.
In the fields of my father, they eat potato chips, hamburgers and hot dogs,
my father's half-brother - Tio Perico - counsels me to let go,
to let go of my father's cruelity,
and remember his frailty.
In the fields of my father, they do not mass at the northern border,
they cook chili relleno, mole, birria, agave tamales and beans,
they hold hands, kiss babies, go to church,
they go to work.
In the fields of my father, I smell dust, exhaust, ice cream, pollo, carnitas,
I eat fat tortas and drive on dark highways,
I stay in a hotel near Starbucks,
I dream of fields.