DON JAIME AND HIS PEONES

The rancher Jaime pays his hands;
they do the work and he sits back.
It's land and capital they lack
and steers and eucalyptus stands.

We sit under the paradise tree
counting the hours
and petals of bright blue
while the chestnut troop canter in
swishing tails.
Juan prevails
on a colt that's just broken in
to show us all who's who.
Now fall sky-flowers,
hot dust blossoming right under me.

Don Jaime is so roundly fat
he climbs a trunk to mount his horse.
He owns the horse and trunk of course -
ten thousand hectares after that.

Carrying halters we approach the corral;
horses splay out
with whinnying and bites
like a shark's teeth round the fence.
Halters are strapped,
the gate unsnapped
and the harnessing rites commence.
When cinches pull, eye whites
warn us: we clout
backward-levered ears with a snarl.

Don Jaime's city wok deep-fries
potato chips, best cuts of beef.
If owning men makes him a thief,
he steals their breath and blinds their eyes.

We, trotting into afternoon sun,
roll cigarettes.
The capybaras bark
in the shade of the kill-eye trees,
entering the stream.
Our ponchos gleam;
the thorned roses of spurs ring; we seize
the day, light up the dark
before the sun sets
and evening has made the herd run.


From stirrup to the trunk at last,
don Jaime seeks the blessed ground,
and for the house he's stiffly bound;
here vermouth frees him from the past.

We soon sit on logs round fire;
mate is passed.
An old man rides up
to the paradise tree, his spurs strapped
to bare feet.
'Take a seat,'
says Camargo; mate is tapped
in the gourd; our guest will sup
and rest at last,
in his spurs, bones the next day will tire.

Wasps lay their eggs in certain drones
whose living flesh becomes their food;
don Jaime's parasitic brood
will suck peones' blood and bones.