Mexico
Andrea Bradley

The blood sun rose and swelled
like a ripe mango in the leather
hands of market women, curving
the backs of field men and searing
the brown eyes of their children while
their sickles swung and glinted gold.

They have come with their iron to cut and bite
the earth, a nemesis hard and deathless,
the slag of poor people's hope:
a Judas to kiss their tough hands
bruised by dirt and rock and praying
for rain to slake their thirst of want,

blue and ceaseless like their skies
sweating and pregnant with red belief,
Dust hugs the land and its lovers,
forever sweeping it from their cracked
porches and peeling paint.  They
stand muted like an old whore.