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.