When tortillas and beans
run out and we’re stuck sixty
of us in Wealthyman’s field
and he has gun rage and dog hunt
and police fear in american powersuits-
We are many, Everywoman,
and People do this in your country everyday.
Walk around in my plastic
it’s no fire ant picnic parade.
None here get a Nobel
or nostalgia or a daily 3 squares.
Our prize is when we die
our souls don’t climb
golden stairs or fly
but dissolve slow
to dirt to birth corn and rice
to feed the belly of the rebel.
This is where my mother went,
why we are strong-
Everybit grows green and wiseand so do we.