Did the rinds ever

Stain his skin

Around the nail?

Were the half-moons

Of Georgia earth

Rimmed in citrus and

Did he grow to loathe

The reek of their oils?

Was the sun unforgiving

Or did he find a haven

Of the trees and kinship in

The dusky brown branches?

Did his brow darken

Through the lattice

Of his hat and

Did he get much

Darker than me?

Did the metallic sweat

On his arms prickle

With the exhalations of

The ice-packed trucks?

Did he ever see the fruits

Of his labors get shined

With wax and stickered for

Supermarket eyes?

Would he have hung his head

Low to think of such a

Granddaughter—too fair

To stand the sun and too

Weak to pick more than

An hour or so—strictly

For diversions?

Would it color his face to see

A granddaughter with lacquered

Fingernails who can barely speak

The language he did?

Would her fear of manchas and spiders

In the trees make him chuckle?

Or would he think she could

Never be one of his?

Did he toil for this?

For a girl too soft, too frail

To be a worker in his

Respect?

Are the black eyes like soil

Freshly turned enough

To be

Familiar?

Did he ever wonder

What his line would be—

Uncallused, unskilled,

Shopping for oranges

Cleaned

Waxed

Labeled

In the aisle of their

Gringo supermarket?