my wishing flower looks nothing like a dandelion

A tower of rising embers,
heliconia hands outstretched 

towards the sun, ruby 
promises, sealed by fire.

My wishing flower looks 
nothing like a dandelion.

With lobster claw 
petals transposing fertile

soil into potent seeds, 
she listens with intent.

My wishing flower says
“Fuck your fleeting wishes!”

doesn’t bother with vapid 
worries, wanton weepings.

Her coarse leaves only
hear the truest wishes:

wishes eulogized by extinct
civilizations, uttered 

in dying breaths, murdered 
children, pillaged 

soil, bodies bound by
shackles, raped 

mothers, beaten 
shaman, curanderismo

castrated by Catholicism,
spayed by Science. 

My wishing flower listens
to beats of migrant workers,

abuelitas wrapping tamales,
primos playing patio futbal.

bailarines dancing cumbia,
picking coffee beans and platanos,

1st-generation college kids,
abuelitos getting Bachelor’s degrees,

single mothers raising families,
single fathers raising families,

padres working grave shifts,
hijos working side by side.

My wishing flower
doesn’t put on a show

Its sacred pact is felt,
if only you touch her 

with unsullied hands.