Our vegetables travel long distances
covered with flecks of American history,
sweat beads on cabbage leaves,
blood stains on lettuce leaves,
the sun burning field skin,
drives broccoli through soil.
Human DNA sticks to celery stocks,
stories shine in the sheen of bell peppers,
A man bends away from the sun to pull onions,
the brim of his cap soiled with earth fingerprints,
he is startled by a rare bug crawling over florets
of pesticide dusted cauliflower. Tough bug, he thinks,
as the insect scurries into green shadows.
His teenage son labors beside him.
There are tomatoes to pick, put in baskets,
baskets to weigh, pickers to pay at the end
of a replicated body- ache day. Red-lined head
from the hat rim, knees numb from kneeling.
Two thousand miles east,
another father-son sit for salad.
Cucumbers washed clean of anguish,
they say their prayers and eat.
This poem was inspired by the third season of ABC’s series American Crime
which included the theme of the migrant workers who pick our vegetables.