Hilling Black Aztec

Hilling Black Aztec
with my father's widest hoe,
I cut weeds
and pull chocolate earth
to hills of four and five stalks.
It's not easy work
and best done early.

Halfway on my last row
I found myself
not unlike Black Aztec
with roots in another soil
and still with memory
of the network of mutuality.

And as I hilled this seed crop,
I felt my core strength building,
stronger together,
the only way I know how to live
in this America
that holds no container capable
to contain our grief.

We can no longer escape.
We are the world once again.

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