Friday, March 21, 2014

Bittersweet

On the 10th day of my sugar fast, I’m dreaming
of milk chocolate bars melting in s’mores,  
Almond Joys, Mounds bars. I yearn
for the fresh taste of York Peppermint Patties,
the sweetness of Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups.

While I imagine little Hershey’s Kisses  
and  heart-shaped boxes,
theatre cases full of Mr. Goodbars,
deep in the countryside of Cote d’Ivoire,
Vincent hacks yellow pods from cocoa trees.
Gathering them into a bag taller than he is,
he staggers to a clearing, sits with other boys
and cracks the pods.  He’s ten years old,

legs scarred by clumsiness
with a machete, one of 200,000 boys
who, for a few hundred euros apiece,
were bought by cocoa farmers
like the one who pays him nothing,
locks him up at night, and feeds him
only corn paste and burnt bananas.

At night, he dreams of his mother’s touch,
of patté with meat and eggs, of playing cricket
with friends. Through the haze
of sleep he hears the call of a rooster,
and then the sun slowly rises.

He is Hershey’s child, Godiva’s offspring—
the face behind the sweetness of my chocolate.

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