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Eating a Peach on the Drive to Porterville
Some cities have a sign
announcing their achievements
only applicable to the valley:
the farming capital in Corcoran,
the harvest of raisins covered in plastic wrap
to protect from the thought of water in Selma,
the asparagus festival in Stockton,
where, before the recession,
you could win a free pound
by guessing how many sticks were in a bunch
without going over,
but the promised wages of generations
are buried beneath the dry land shadowed
in the deep rows of crops that seem endless
like the history of unionized hands
clinging to the memory
of pruning a hybrid fruit tree
at all the right spots
and just enough
to stimulate its growth.
I remember what Masumoto wrote
about being tied to a place during the time
of disasters, and when the juice is translucent,
running through the tunnels
of my beard until they wither,
I suction every bit of sustenance
stranded in the shallow canals of the pit.
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