arnoldo garcía

homesickness

i am homesickness

the road

the wandering

the horizon

the search for the next field

moving on after the last harvest season

packing everything into the pick-up

hopping in the back

the road is for the weary migrant

the road is the migrant's other vacation

you go to the next season

prune souls

prop communal branches sagging with the goddess's breasts

we suckle on ripening lips

sunburnt chapped nipples

our bodies

rasping against

the trees

apples

cherries

apricots

peaches

green beans

tomatoes

watermelons

grapes

hops

beet

before winter sets in

and we flee before the snow

traps us in her ice cream with canned condensed milk

I am homesickness

I don't belong anywhere

except on the dark nights

sliced by highways and rosaries for insurance

No one will remember me anywhere

I have lived nowhere long enough to be a memory

I become the human dust

the housewife washes off the fruit and vegetables

while she cooks for her family

I am at the table being eaten alive

as I hunger over beans and tortillas in a moldy migrant camp

crunch on the rare chile verde

I hear laughter (our own)

I hear prayers (my grandmother leading us from temptations)

I hear snoring (the fatigue of hardest working brothers and sisters slightly poisoned every day to ensure a slow death by a thousand hoes and blisters)

In the morning the singing begins

The comal sizzling with tomatoes being cooked on the ancient griddle my gandmom

carries with us from meal to meal, a portable stove top over an open fire, from place to place,

My grandfather is a human compass and map

He can find any field anywhere in the dark of the early hours of what will be a 14, 15 16, 17, 18, even 20 hour work-day (depending on the season)

We drive to the edge of a day that will soon arrive

with her ignorant sun that treats humans and plants equally

no mercy for those without a chlorophyl skin, a green skin that ripens fruit

and ages humans into dog years

You pour your coffee without a thought

You slice your tomatoes, sometimes a little miffed by its imperfections

You cook bacon, chicken, spaghetti, carrots, broccoli, tasty salads,

impeccably topped with goat cheese or olives

Oblivious to the migrant hands and backs

the destruction of a human body the circumstantial evidence of your ignorance

I am now homesick

for every place I've ever trekked

for every migrant camp I ever lived even if for a few weeks

for every road that lead us to our homes everywhere

I am homesick every day that I am not on the road

to the next season

to the next field

to the next migrant dance and wedding

the luxury of the poor who feed you every day and night

I am homesick and there is no cure

except to bury me in a dirt road

at the intersection of solstices

There is no cure

except to banish the sadness of departures and separation

keep me close to your eyes your breathing your steady word

You come home every day after work

I look for my home as I look for work

My sickness is fatal, is collective

except for a home and assurances that I won't be thrown out or away

when the last season is done and the geese fly over the fields

and we follow them, we're next, we're done and forgotten

Don't forget me, don't obliterate us

shelter us

defend us

put your arm around the shadows of our desires

and everything may be alright

but not today

not this morning

I am homesick and this place will not heal me