
Sweatshop
Pudding Magazine #60
There’s no bottom
to the depths
of the body,
no lower
one can go
except perhaps
to China and then
upside down
working all day
and night
in the factory
piecing
blue shapes.
Hands move
as dead weapons,
eyes into
their sockets.
I know the untold
lies and love
that’s put
on hold until
sky aches
under the hungry stars.