My wife brings home a jar of Nutella
From the Supermarket.
And each time you spread Nutella
You spread billions of acres of melanin
Of little boys who work in Cocoa plantations
On your conscience.
[And that thought suffices to keep you alive]
Knowing that something inside of you is eclipsed
By child-labor. When a little child who should
Be in school, is plucking cocoa fruits
To make jars of chocolate products.
And the melanin-wiped conscience
Will grope in the dark trying to escape
The stranglehold of chocolate.
Chocolate was supposed to indulge, to be a dark fantasy.
And not be a litmus test for your conscience.
Yet how acidic, how sour, is Child Labor
To the indicator strips
Of your innermost sanctum?
