by Lisa Cooley (BA’ 20)
To the richest man in the world
There is a forest
I’m sure you have heard
that houses the richest
man in the world
The man owns the forest
and so he is proud
and from where he sits
on his throne with his crown
the forest looks green
it bustles and teems
money grows on its trees
and falls at his feet
how does this forest
make money, you ask?
For this I’m afraid
I must step out of form
For this forest is not
a forest at all
And if you step a bit closer, you will realize that there is something very strange
and off-putting about the too-perfect birdsong
that harps to a rhythm that never misses a beat,
you will notice it repeats on a loop that is metallic
and flat, and at the same time it dawns on you
that the birds are long dead—or never existed at all.
You start to hear new sounds, faint whispers and growls,
in the language of steel
and cogs and chemicals, this ruthless prime-
al energy
This forest grows strange fruit,
of furniture, and mugs, and books, and rugs
capitalism’s detritus, and no, the fruits are not the cadavers
but the picking, packaging and delivering can be deadly
and if you step deeper inside this carnivorous forest machine,
the voices grow louder
chanting raise profit, raise profit,
the prophet of their god screams
free shipping at no cost, at whatever cost, human cost
And if you peel back the synthetic bark of the trees,
you will find nothing organic about the cold metal
that gleams from underneath
And the roots give away to a
river not made
of water but metal
cogs churning and screeching 24 hours a day
run on the power of minimum wage
and the blood of sick workers
with no choice but to work
and you wonder then why
this mirage of a forest looked green at all
So if you are reading
Jeff Bezos, my dear
Please do the right thing,
Pay your workers their share
And if you don’t care
Let me be very clear
we won’t take it anymore
Prepare for class war