The Body of a Murdered Wetback Is Found by Children in an Orange Grove

The smell of violence and oranges hangs
On air and sound. The sibilance of wasps
Aroused by heavier scent than honey sings.

The children found the body. They had planned
Adventures in the hills beyond the grove.
A stream to pan for flecks of fool’s gold lured
Them there, and blood-warm garnets, tourmaline,
And veins of chalk to mine until the blue
remorseless granite flinted sparks from spades.
The handle of the knife was pearl, and gay
In sunlight, caught the children’s eye. The blood
Hung pendant from the stings of slumbrous wasps.
Although his flesh is darker than their chalk
The children know how knives slip through and glance
From stony ribs: this spark ignites and burns
The heart. His fool’s blood glistens through the fear
That sounds and splits the morning. But the adults

Who will run to comfort them will find
The children quiet in the lull of wasps
That clustered, close the dark metallic eyes.