BRANDON CESMAT

Discussing Labor at the Feast

Agave roasted orange not from July
but dug from a desert circle, swollen by monsoons,
holding its breath of water against the hard pan,
disentangled and reburied with suns from cores of trees,
while cooks boil nettles and sip tea off spoons.
Smoke from roast venison baits the tribal chairman.

For dessert he asks, “Will professors strike?
Are they wise enough to balance a balloon
against the dropping price of carcinogens?”
Agave exhales steam, holds orange sugars worth a warm hike
and an unpacking of Anza-Borrego’s sand. Between back molars
the professor clamps onto a grain of grit. To swallow or spit?