Bittersweet

On the 10^th 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.