by Paul French
When he saw that it was good, he snatched it,
weak wax paper folding, falling to the ground--
the boll of grape flavored candy bare on the stick.
Unveiled, some teeth in a grin;
he raised the confection
like a baton and marched down book aisles
while his father stared into a display filled
with Confederate dolls and plastic roses;
a gilded cavalry sword lying beside UDC pamphlets,
their sallow sheets highlighting the forward push
of flint-chinned infantry, lining up in defense
of the profit gushing from black
labor marking fields up to their horizons--
their bodies
dipped and rose
like well oiled
machines.
When the Father turned around and found
his son, he noticed that the child
was using his mouth's every muscle
to suck.
The work of Paul French, a young poet, has appeared in Din Magazine.
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