Agricultural Revolution

Gabby Gilliam

We learned to use the sun’s warmth and energy

to grow taller than the other grasses, so its rays 

reached us first. The wind was unfettered and traveled 

afar, so we grew thinner so it could whip through us,

strip our seeds and carry them with it when it went. 

We learned how to entice the feathered ones 

and the ones with claws and teeth so they would pluck 

our seeds. We used the sun to grow seeds so plump 

they burst from our heads, ready to crack in teeth and beaks.

We learned the bipedal ones, nearly bald with blunt claws 

and soft beaks, were the ones best suited to spread our seed. 

They carried our stalks away, seeds trailing behind them 

as they returned to their dens. Their clumsiness suited our purpose well.

So we domesticated them.

We taught them that we don’t like rocks, so they plucked 

them from our soil, and we spread. We showed them 

that we don’t like to share, so they uprooted any others 

that might steal our sun or the nutrients from our soil 

and we spread.

Their bodies began to suffer. Joints swelled 

on their dexterous claws from spending hours 

collecting our seed and our rocks and our weeds.

Their backs bent from loosening 

our soil and sowing our seeds.

They built shelters near our fields. Settled. 

Spent less time hunting or gathering 

other plants. They devoted themselves to us

and in return, we spread.

We conquered the forests.

We traveled across oceans.

We spread. We spread. We spread.

GABBY GILLIAM lives in the DC metro area with her husband and son. Read more.

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