after Dorothea Lange
The road takes your eye.

Dave stands in front of me

on the loose gravel, his gaze locked

on the bitumen, following the curve

past the last tree to the haze of hills

in the distance. His arm is extended,

ready, prepared to make a supplicating arc

whenever a car approaches.There’s no sign

of a car.There haven’t been any cars

for fifteen minutes and the last one

was going in the wrong direction, back

to Arizona, back towards our abandoned car,

back to the old farm, the sweeping furrows

ploughed right up to the verandah by now,

the vegetable garden and chicken coop gone,

replaced by furrows as far as the eye

can see, as far as a tractor, that bright

new toy of the bank, can make them.

It’s hot.The sun is burning Dave’s neck,

burning up through the leather soles

of his lace-up, pointy-toed white shoes –

his favourite shoes–not the sort of

sensible shoes you’d wear on a country road

in the middle of August 1936.At least

I’m resting, sitting on our suitcase,

my girl asleep on my lap, her hot breath

gluing my dress to my skin. My son squats

beside me, feet bare, cap tilted, his hand

under his chin, musing, supporting his father

who is still gazing down the road in search

of a lift. Dave says there’s supposed to be work

around Bakersfield–grapes, more cotton,

oranges, even some regular jobs at the cannery.

He keeps saying it–there’s work in Bakersfield,

as if simply repeating it will make our luck

change. California. The name used to be as sweet

as sherbet on my tongue, but now it’s a parched

growl stuck in my throat. I smile. For my son’s

sake, for Dave’s, I smile. He’s humming

some tune to himself, the girl’s sound asleep,

my boy’s dragging a stick through the dirt,

making another picture. Nothing to do but wait.

And then go on. No point telling them

what I really think, what I know.

Our luck won’t change.