— Black and Outside

Dear Hiring Manager,

I am writing to apply for the exploitation,

As advertised on LinkedIn,

And while I am confident my skills as

A person who knows what it takes to swallow a fist or

A tongue with no varnish,

Make me uniquely qualified to add to your sugary plunder,

I have some questions I was hoping you could answer before we met.

am long gone, without this job to fulfill my purpose?

Best—

Applicant

_____________________________________________________________________

Dear Applicant,

Am I my market’s keeper?

What know I, of fulfillment?

I, hacked away in my prime for standing,

A sweeter talker than the people’s champion, my saccharine sits

On your unlacquered tongue; it’s heavy.

I, sugarcane, can’t help you with feeling as though you

Planted not with love but with greed & lust & sweat

Are not measuring up to what you were fertilized in.

I am just sugarcane.

I am cut and wrung for your momentary delight,

For your addiction to your own serotonin you need

Me

To wring out of you, so really,

I guess you could say we’re

Even, with you pouring my

Procession, crystallized,

Priceless gemstones you sift into cups

Of once-bitter black tea.

You are just human.

Reaped before you are planted,

Cut into a mold that breaks without your consent

For your exploitation by the wielders of the hunting knife;

The one hanging up with the other tools, rusted in the iron shed.

You know what's funny?

I don’t need to fuck

Or to even secure a mate, to reproduce.

I, asexual

Perennial, sugarcane can be reborn

From my cuttings.

Sometimes I use seeds but more commonly

I return from what was cut away

Rooted

elsewhere.