LABOR POEM OF THE WEEK: 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 Blue Collar Review