Picking chili peppers
carefully place each
into a sack, so as not
to bruise
the softer side.
The weariness of
these harsh days
stretch before me
as wide as the horizon.

We pick like
our lives depend
on it. Coughing,
chocking – chili pepper
dust like crushed
sandpaper in the throat.

Suddenly,
the white men
the alien catchers
come for people
carelessly throwing
Mexicans
into a van
like so much less
than chili peppers.

The man beside me
worked so fast
right until the second
before they snatched him.
Those left behind
grab what’s left.

They pay by the pound.