The Weeds

By JULIÁN DAVID BAÑUELOS

“By the sweat of your brow
you will eat your food
until you return to the ground,
since from it you were taken;
for dust you are
and to dust you will return.”
             Genesis 3:19

i.
In many ways we knew we had no choice.
We woke in time to tell the stars goodnight,
Returned to broken homes and heard the fights.
I hated those fields, but I fell in love with his voice.
I sat front row at the Bobby Lewis
Show every morning. I couldn’t sleep at all
Last night! Jujo would sing for all of us.
Shoulder to shoulder, tightly packed cotton bales

Rolling to fields that knew our hands so well.
Often, I fell to the earth before the rain did—
Twelve-year-old tear ducts provided the perfect
Moisture to keep those rows white.
Fifty cents per hour—
I saw nothing. I said nothing when Jujo cut weeds in my row.

ii.
Normal girls spent summers cannonballing,
Dancing to Thriller, idolizing
Princess Diana. While the four of us
Stood hoe in hand, whispering good morning
To the groggy skies. Cutting weeds wasn’t fun,
But being with my Tía and her two daughters
In those fields right off the Slaton highway
Meant everything. Those fields made us women.

The dashboard slow-cooked our bean burritos
Just in time for lunch. Five dollars per hour—
to learn to pop-a-squat.
At thirteen I was being potty-trained
Yet again. Soiled underwear. Callused hands.
We spent those summers becoming women.

iii.
There’s no choosing between privilege and work ethic.
Panhandle-colored skin. When I grow
Old you’ll see rows of cotton run above
My arched brows. My hands will return
To adolescence. But my body will speak—
Through aches and pains, I inherited
Privilege. Through bruised and broken backbones
I learned blistered hands were meant to bleed.

Count the calluses
After a week’s work and that’s your payment.
At fifteen these hands bent steel,
built banjos for cotton gins.
We mold the earth, forgetting that the rain
Brings winds that carry our bodies like dust.

 

Julián David Bañuelos is a Mexican American poet and translator from Lubbock, Texas. He is a graduate of the Iowa Writers’ Workshop. You can find his work at JulianDavidBanuelos.com.

[Purchase Issue 26 here.] 

From the beginning, The Common has brought you transportive writing and exciting new voices. We are committed to supporting writers and maintaining free, unrestricted access to our website, but we can’t do it without you. Become an integral part of our global community of readers and writers by donating today. No amount is too small. Thank you!

The Weeds

Related Posts

Hitting a Wall and Making a Door: A Conversation between Phillis Levin and Diane Mehta

DIANE MEHTA and PHILLIS LEVIN
This conversation took place over the course of weeks—over daily phone calls and long emails, meals when they were in the same place, and a weekend in the Connecticut countryside. The poets share what they draw from each other’s work, and the work of others, exploring the pleasures of language, geometric movement, and formal constraint.

Anna Malihot and Olena Jenning's headshots

August 2025 Poetry Feature: Anna Malihon, translated by Olena Jennings

ANNA MALIHON
The girl with a bullet in her stomach / runs across the highway to the forest / runs without saying goodbye / through the news, the noble mold of lofty speeches / through history, geography, / curfew, a day, a century / She is so young that the wind carries / her over the long boulevard between bridges

Image of a tomato seedling

Talks with the Besieged: Documentary Poetry from Occupied Ukraine  

ALEX AVERBUCH
Russians are already in Starobilsk / what nonsense / Dmytrovka and Zhukivka – who is there? / half a hundred bears went past in the / direction of Oleksiivka / write more clearly / what’s the situation in Novoaidar? / the bridge by café Natalie got blown up / according to unconfirmed reports