Thresher Days

By OSWALDO VARGAS

The wheat wants an apology,
for taking me this long
to show my wrists
to the thresher boy.

Finally a summer where he asks how my parents are
and my jaw is ready,
stretched open so he can hear about them,
easier.

I may look different after,
I will need a new name,
picked by my parents—they’re calling right now
so I can help them write a check out in English.

We take our time
to heave and hug our way
through the harvest season.
And then the stalks towered

and tickled the floorboards of Heaven.
Half-asleep heaveneers
spot my culprit, my ex-thresher boy
and his ginger hair,

a beacon
to anyone that far up
that these farm boys had the audacity
to be wanted.

 

Oswaldo Vargas is a former farmworker and a 2021 Undocupoets Fellowship recipient. He has been anthologized in Nepantla: An Anthology Dedicated to Queer Poets of Color and published in Narrative Magazine and Academy of American Poets’ “Poem-A-Day” (among other publications). He lives and dreams in Sacramento, California.

[Purchase Issue 26 here]

From the beginning, The Common has brought you transportive writing and exciting new voices. We are committed to supporting writers and maintaining free, unrestricted access to our website, but we can’t do it without you. Become an integral part of our global community of readers and writers by donating today. No amount is too small. Thank you!

Thresher Days

Related Posts

Image of a a large yellow Weeping Willow tree against a bright blue sky.

Selections from Lettres en forêt urbain

BERTRAND LAVERDURE
Your saffron-colored sticks flatter my circular daydreams. The road is a second-hand dealer of wood who doesn’t mark their prices. A colony of bags, spare with its conclusions. You are the lookout post of a dead stream. Calm like a descent, breath held [...]

Glass: Five Sonnets

MONIKA CASSEL
In ’87 I see guardsmen walk their AK-47s / on the platforms. The trains slow down but never stop. I think, / my mother was born in such a different Germany, but this is true for everyone / —so why can’t I stop looking?