Milk.

In the lands that are lap'd upon by the Mediterranean

the olives drip from the trees, to the skins of passersby.

Or, more over it seems, are pressed hard for oil, or for embezzling.

And in the grazing fields of the landlocked settlements across the Atlantic

years of milk stain the hands of its harvesters a creamy patina.

Or, perhaps, the cows excrete in the shades of white

because they are scared to be involved with any other color

in Nebraska, or Oklahoma, or Texas.

And as the Winter nears, and my skin fades to match a matchstick

I, again, am bothered.

As it seems my lineage has bestowed a shade of Pine,

or Poplar, or Bass, upon my casing.

And I cringe when I see the Mahogany faces and Spruce cheek-bones

the Cherry legs, the Walnut wrists the other up-rights own.

Spurred from the deepest rooted jealousy

the world has ever known.