Lamb’s Quarters by Eve Bratman
I know a secret about you.
You’re not such a scourge after all.
Scorned by others as a weed
It’s not for nothing you sow your seed.
You’re called Pigweed.
You might be dirty but you’re smart.
Vitamin A and nothing tart
I don’t think it lewd
To call you food.
You’re a gem, especially because you’re scorned.
Even City Farm aimed to deny you a space,
But your worth in my stir-fry was a better place
Eating you was pure satisfaction
Your ancient role in constant reaction
I take silent subversive pleasure
In eating a wild urban unloved treasure.