Left hand
Right hand
Every hand reaches
the length of the wires
buzzing over head in the heat
that is Sebastian, Texas.
Picking and pulling bushels of cotton
seeds and bugs fill fingernails
like mango, watermelon
sticky juice down
jaws and collar bones.
Tractor beats and
mosquito wings
sound symphonies and
tight, loud language
on Saturday mornings
when all that’s on is
golf or the hum of cotton gins.
Each eye searches the gravel roads
like ant farms
rusted at the frame.
The children stay for Summer
school grow weary shouldered
they drag their melting jello legs
home for lunch today.
It’s the train passing nearby on
tracks that saw the Great Depression
and cows that lick and sniff at you,
or dust that covers your hands
your face
trucks and cars lurching past
down the main road.
It’s a slurping
raspa bright
red strawberry
tangy blue coconut
that reminds you of where you’re at.