under a guillotine sun, abuelo heaves on,
massaged by the breath of grapevines
fingers scarred by picking through many lifetimes
contort into the shape of a spider walking,
the third generation looks up
and likes this quiet display
of artistic innovation.
little luis watches the spider
ambush a hovering fruit fly, then
get smothered
in a web of clenched flesh.
luis is missing school again today,
and his fingers are beginning to show growth,
tough enough to resist the injection of thorns
as his basket fills slowly with the future juice
of an amerika that he will never see.
