WEBVTT

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When I came to the
Knox Conference here,

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I had a young student
asked me if anyone had ever

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suggested that my
poem romanticized

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the work of the farm labor.

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And I was starting to answer
when another student said, "No,

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it doesn't.

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It's both.

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It can be romantic, but
it's also fucking hard."

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So with that, I want to
read "La Madrugada," which

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means daybreak or dawn.

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"The radio alarm clock sputters.

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A liquid-lipped announcer cries.

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K-X-A-X, Radio Campesino.

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I pull the covers
higher but can't

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escape the call, Es
la hora de amanecer,

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aqui viene la madrugada.

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Here it comes, this day's dawn.

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Once again I hear the strains
of strung-tight violins,

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the flutes' galloping trills,
opening to an old standard,

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'La espiga,' the eager
wheat ear ripening for love.

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Soon I'll brave
my leche con café.

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I'll clutch my favorite bowl,
cringe as the soft-cooked egg

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squirms to my spoon.

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I'll marvel at the
squirt of yolk,

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how it caramelizes
fresh white bread.

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Then teeth brushed, hair
pomaded into braids,

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I'll grip the wire
handle of my lard can,

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rush to claim a window
to the predawn air.

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Knees pop, hips and back
spasm, but it has never

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been better or worse than this.

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The way sunlight slips overhead,
the plopping sound as figs

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fill my can, the sweet-salt
toil of harvesting the fields."

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