from his hand, the cotton folded,
and from hers, she spun rough string.
then from his, the letters bolded,
but from her tongue no songs to sing.

from his heart, he felt no pumping
her cuts and scrapes had not left marks,
from the wheel, he heard the thumping,
from her eyes, she looked as stark.

their posture spoke obedience,
with feet and arms that hurt as such,
in their thoughts, all fists were clenched,
though their souls felt cold to touch.

from his hand, the paper stolen,
and from hers, the same, again,
and in his mouth, the gums were swollen,
her eyes, a place always like fen.

“respect” their cold leader once said,
“is what you ought to have.”
their labor left them feeling dead,
and for this, he had no salve.

from the thread they harvested,
they sewed him his expensive clothes,
and once the laborers felt bested,
he raised his hand, more came in droves.

There are grapes in my path
This abundant trail
now invisible as if we never were
Here, to pick and preen, salvage and reap
for pleasure and pain
I picked you some flowers,
I baked you a pie,
labors of love
with your own hands
connected to earth.

Breaking backs, and clinging sweat
Under wool, denim, straw, and cotton
Keeping more out than simply the sun
Depleted soil
Exhausted soul
Bursting with juice
Bountiful and hand chosen

And you in a hurry just drive by
Dust in the wind
Skin of clay mud
Day after day,
A boulder among the rows
Hunched in fields
Blistered and callused
Searching for more
Ripe for the picking
Migrants moving
Servitude by season
Benevolent harvest
Handpicked strawberries
By chocolate covered hands
destined from birth
closer to earth.