A man propels an axe
towards a target,
hits the bullseye;
the crowd cheers.

A tractor putters by,
a trailer trailing
full of people
sitting on big bales of hay.
They watch the people in the fields
who pay to do the kind of labor
migrants sweat and bleed
to earn the privilege
of working for
a ha’penny
per fruit.

Beneath the April sun
I kneel and stain my jeans
with sandy loam
that cakes upon my palms.

I reach out for a morsel,
pluck it
gently
from its mother.

It is bright red.
Redder than my rosy cheeks,
redder than my curly hair,
redder than my monthly blood,
redder than I’ll ever be.

Beneath my nose
the fruit exudes
its sweet potential,
tempting me
with floral citrus
fruity pineapple
fresh vegetal
sweet almond, peach;
they call to me.

Greedily,
I sin as migrants never may
and pass the fruit between my lips—
its only match for ruddiness—
the whole thing, pedicle and all;
between my teeth the flesh is crushed,
upon my tongue its juices lap,
my taste buds feel that tickle sweet
embezzling my harvest ere
it has a chance to reach my basket.

Can they afford their labor’s fruit
as I may purchase by the pound?