Heirloom Seeds

 

Mother Nature has tried.

She has tried to convince

us to spit her seeds

back into the cycle of life.

She has relentlessly enticed us to spit the

seeds into the cycle,

like the rotary part of a washing machine

But we have thrown a rusty wrench

into natural order.

We have created hybrid

crops that began in sterile white labs

and are spliced under

microscopes and sold in bulk

to farmers.

We have created

crops with motives,

jerking around our DNA,

zapping insects,

and mocking nature.

We are gods in white garb,

wearing thick goggles,

dispersing airborne—

not heirloom—seeds

into the atmosphere.

We are shameless and focused,

creating corrupted

files of produce.



Las Uvas Verdes/Las Manos Negras

 

 

There were Texans and Oklahomans

in those fields,

Texans and Oklahomans who made whistles from vines

and clapped their Black hands like they

channeled the Holy Ghost

on a Baptist church floorboard.

These workers charmed

bees and gopher snakes,

blew their souls through

metal harmonicas

while they swatted, sweated,

and whistled toward a brighter future

When they picked las uvas verdes with

their feet planted firmly on fertile California soil.

They left Southern impressions of

soleless shoes.

Las familias negras tackled rows and rows

of green grapes, orchards, and white afro puffs.

They hummed as if baked bread pudding or fresh yeast bread

waited for their palates at home on dining tables.