Do you not know we connive against you?
You relegate us to cellars, remote recesses,
leave us to rot without air, among others uprooted —
the stink of onions makes our eyes water.
We were worshipped by Incas. When Antoinette
adorned her hair with our blossoms, demand
for us became insatiable. You think us bland lumpens?
We will rise again. Listen. Once we refused
to come up from the earth and brought down a nation.
We bide our time. We lurk in dark corners, multiplying
our eyes. Our skin thickens against you.
We hiss and spit at your kind from the pan.
The author is a poet and novelist in New York City.