Sitting in the backyard
soaking up the sun
face turned to sky
pale skin begins
to bronze

Workers begin to fill
the tomato field
behind my house

Mother calls me inside
Can’t let them see me
Too much temptation
she says inside her head

Yet still I hear her words.
Wonder why.
I can’t  stay outside.
They are just
people.
Like me.
Their skin already
brown.

Once I went out when
she wasn’t home.

They looked at me
with hungry eyes.

Hands never stop
plucking ripe tomatoes
backs bent over
tossing them
in the bags
they carried on
their shoulders.

Not hungry for me.
But for what I had.

Time to look into the sun.

I turned, ran into the house.
Shame coursing through me.
Never went outside when they
were there again.

Never looked up at the sun
the same way.  I no longer
bronze in the summer.
I am pale
white…

I own my privilege with
humbleness and sorrow.

I have been poor. Yet poor
and also white.  I see where
the advantage lies.

I don’t move from field to
field picking crops for the
rest of us to eat.

Long ago
I could just dig change from
the couch cushions
to find enough for us
to eat.

Now my bank account is
sufficiently full after working
sixty years.

I bent my back to work
too, over a desk, on the floor
with children.

but the tomato’s
still have
to be picked.

And the sun shines hotter
on their backs…

Each night as I walk
through the sculpture garden
he lies alone
his hands empty of things to do.

While I dance words through my brain
he whispers my
real name
to the darkness.

Long nights are buried in his hands-
his fingers stretch
back in time
caressing yesterdays  
small minutes.

Inside his hands
old secrets
lie almost dormant.

I send my hands to school
writing words on paper
while his hands tap
tunes on my bones.

My hands are wet fish
just pulled from the lake.
His hands carry songs
that blood can sing.