| Supermarket
Blues
Lynne Bama
We've been released. No more
of that old-time slog with pail and hoe,
callused hands and creaking backs.
A modern feast is now arrayed
to tempt us—bright galaxies
of can and bottles,
picture-packaged meals
that camouflage
what freakish compounds,
spliced and misbegotten genes?
These chilled displays
of flawless eggs,
rich slabs of salmon,
lushly marbled steaks
conceal what spectacles
of sheared-off beaks and narrow cages,
floating pens that seaped disease,
or undead flesh that shuddered
under hurried knives?
The vivid glow of winter berries,
melons, mangoes, pineapples,
and purple grapes
obscure how many pickers
choking bitter fumes,
how many dispossessed
in cardboard shacks,
their children combing landfills
where the future lies discarded?
The floors are spotless here.
Everyone is friendly
and the sound track
drowns out distant
screams.
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