August in the San Joaquin

The corn’s been harvested

and the stalks stand tall and brown,

crowded in rows

like surrendering soldiers.

The cotton is thigh-high

and the grapes are almost ripe.

My father is buried here

amid the almonds and palms,

the bracken and stubborn sun.

Does he perceive the rise and fall of life?

Does he hear my greeting and my mother’s sobs,

or my daughter’s hesitant,

“As-salamu alaykum Giddo...”

Or does his gaze fall on another world,

joyful and terrible?

I don’t know what games he played as a child,

or what he dreamed of.

Was he proud of his life?

I can’t ask him now.

I know he was tired at the end, and fearful.

I wish it had been easier for him.

Though I saw him after he died

and he seemed peaceful then, smiling.

Trucks laden with tomatoes

head west to the ports,

looking like red-backed beasts.

The rivers are dry sand

and the sky is high and hard.

It’s August in the Valley

and everyone is counting the days,

waiting for a change in the air

and an offer of relief.

Wael Abdelgawad

August 25, 2013