This was a bit of an exercise – my sister sent me a topic, and this is the first draft
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Sugar Cane
Nine
Seven
Years old
we feel grown up
but the sugarcane rises tall
above us
the sun beats
hot on our bare shoulders
machete in hand
we take turns
chop at the bamboo stalk as if our lives depend on it
sharp leaves cut into my fists
the effort it takes
– to chop back the bark
– to chew the sweet wood
– to spit it all out
Overpowered by the
sweet
sweet
juice
dripping
down
the
chin
The sun stops moving
green grass glares emerald-bright
sky covers
my sister
and I’m
the
sweet
sweet
juice,
dripping
down
down
on the machete on the ground next to us
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