I grabbed one butternut squash

    and was surprised how hard it was.

I started by cutting off the top.

    Don’t be afraid, Sonia says glancing at me,

        to peel off meat as you go along,

                                                              we don’t own these.

As the inside is exposed,

        they get more slippery on my plastic gloves.

More reason to go faster, she adds casually.

The sounds of thuds

                                 in the large aluminum table

get more consistent, mixing

        with Portuguese exchanges.

Sonia’s silent beside me.              I think

that was the end of my training

                                                      in this workstation.

I finally get the rhythm

                                     of tossing peeled squash

into the blue container

with water on the floor

                                    in one corner

which the folk lift

        will carry out later

into the dicing room

        next door.

Envious of the chatter,

I asked Sonia, do you like

                     Roque Dalton the revolutionary?

She stopped, smiling in disbelief.

                     Dalton the poet? 

I didn’t know you speak Spanish.

                     I shook my head quickly.

My goodness, she goes on, I was little back then.

        I remember when guerrillas

would pass our village in the morning,

                    and soldiers in the afternoon.

Not everyone likes Dalton, but I do.

For now, she returns to production,

        cut away from you,

                                            but don’t hit anyone.

When you get better

        you’ll learn to peel with

                the knife going towards you.

Glancing around, all the older ladies

                were doing it that way.

It appears dangerous, she sums up,

                but controlling instead

of releasing the force

                                   from your wrist

is actually more efficient.