We’ve walked to your fields at dawn.
We labored in the noon-day sun.
We returned, spent from your fields at dusk.
We are a million browns
In the migrant fields,
At harvest time in America.
We’ve picked your tomatoes, cucumbers and lettuce.
We’ve picked your apples, peaches and oranges.
We’ve eaten the dust of a thousand tractors;
The dust settling on us in delicated layers
Until our pesticide sweat
Ran Like a burning yellow river
Down the valley of our backs.
We’ve lain in rat infested shacks
In winter so cold our brothers and sisters
Froze dead in their sleep.
We buried them on the outskirts
Of your cemeteries;
Too poor to buy them markers.
We can no longer find them
Anywhere, but in the troubled
Darkness of our nightmares.
We’ve come to your hospitals—in disperation,
Pleading for healing of our young.
We’ve placed them on your sterile altars—
Only to watch them die from neglect,
In hidden, taupe colored rooms–alone.
They died waiting for the nurses to call,
And doctors who never showed,
Who never cared,
About the poor, brown,
Children who waited,
To die like dogs,
By the side of the road.
More or less grow cold.