Facial

As if handling art
for the surgical jobs
we donned cotton gloves
white clad hands
plucking stacks of placenta trays
off the heating, stomping, chopping
thermoforming machine
small plastic tubs
emerging endlessly
as if by peristalsis
along the conveyer belt
precious bounty
never to be caressed by skin
laid gently
fifty to a pile
two hundred per cardboard box
sealed, shipped, delivered and opened
at another end of the work force chain
I could only imagine
where they all, individually
came to birthing rooms
where new lives would begin
in blood, in shit, in pain
in labor to grow up to labor
like me
producer of placenta trays
their name says it all
plop in goes the organ to the dish
plastics and organics
inter-reliant, co-dependent
nature and manufacture
and then it too
has to go
via post or otherwise
on the road, through the air and over sea
into makeup factories
producing more products
feeding the market
high end, expensive smears
destined for the medicine cabinets
of aging rich women
who think they might regain their youth
by mashing its essence
into their varicosed hides

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