On the Way to Ojai
Alan Chazaro
I don’t know how to say what needs saying so I’ll write
this poem instead. It’s about orange orchards and vineyards
huddled beneath the Santa Ynez mountains. It’s about
migrant workers—their parked cars, the heat, my privilege
in watching them bend above bundles of lettuce. Driving through it all
I see pro-Trump signs, Blue Lives Matter flags and Confederate
symbols lining dirt roads. I don’t mean to be this
American, but I am. I’m on my way to Ojai, crossing
through a central Californian desert. The sprinklers are squirting
and the workers become oceans in open fields. My air conditioning keeps me
cool as Too $hort escapes the speakers. It’s the first time I’ve driven
this far south in years. At the gas station, a white man
tells me I don’t need to wear my mask around here. He looks me in the eyes.