When I came to the Knox Conference here,
I had a young student asked me if anyone had ever
suggested that my poem romanticized
the work of the farm labor.
And I was starting to answer when another student said, "No,
it doesn't.
It's both.
It can be romantic, but it's also fucking hard."
So with that, I want to read "La Madrugada," which
means daybreak or dawn.
"The radio alarm clock sputters.
A liquid-lipped announcer cries.
K-X-A-X, Radio Campesino.
I pull the covers higher but can't
escape the call, Es la hora de amanecer,
aqui viene la madrugada.
Here it comes, this day's dawn.
Once again I hear the strains of strung-tight violins,
the flutes' galloping trills, opening to an old standard,
'La espiga,' the eager wheat ear ripening for love.
Soon I'll brave my leche con café.
I'll clutch my favorite bowl, cringe as the soft-cooked egg
squirms to my spoon.
I'll marvel at the squirt of yolk,
how it caramelizes fresh white bread.
Then teeth brushed, hair pomaded into braids,
I'll grip the wire handle of my lard can,
rush to claim a window to the predawn air.
Knees pop, hips and back spasm, but it has never
been better or worse than this.
The way sunlight slips overhead, the plopping sound as figs
fill my can, the sweet-salt toil of harvesting the fields."