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
We have created
crops with motives,
jerking around our DNA,
and mocking nature.
We are gods in white garb,
wearing thick goggles,
into the atmosphere.
We are shameless and focused,
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
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
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.