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My America
here we practice sardine-can sorcery,
stretch our mayonnaise longer
than the lines for payday loans.
we tan the hungry hides of our stomachs
with barely there food stamps,
hang dollar-store jewelry
on the church of our bodies
to feel holy. we know we are prey,
and your chasing us
has happened for so long
it feels natural. until the earth
calls our names, we'll belly up
to your billionaires' bar, a reprieve
arriving when we're finally
dirt-ready. this welcome break
like soap to sore hands, our
fingers no longer blackened
by coupons and coal mines.
Carlee Wilson, in The Blue Collar Review; read more here.
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