In warm air I grow, a weed in a dry field by a stadium
nothing much sprouts where I am
I suck up all the water where only a lizard may live,
in spring a few wildflowers may color the space
summer consumes in high heat
The soil so rocky not worth a worm’s ass
trampled by thousands of feet
when people fill the bowl with screams
songs in the tribal rites of autumn.
It’s been centuries since the tzoalli, idols of god.
Gardeners pull me out by the root, call me pigweed
farmers hate me, make bonfires of me.
When men come with the pigskin, they do not eat me
people offer popcorn, hotdogs, beer, blood, war
in an odd way not the old way it satisfies Huitzilopochtli.
Poem first published in journal “Chrysanthemum” / Editor, Koon Woon March 2020.