On Being an Ad Campaign

I am the product of whom your mother once said

It’s good, drink up—

Don’t you want to be strong?

You gobbled me up with breakfast or

chicken nuggets or chocolate chess pie.


I’m milk-white with corn silk hair that screams of breeding.

Even the peaches and cream

from roadside sellers

is designed by a man in a suit

who made me easy to husk and sweet as honey.


My hard candy eyes were voted on in 1995

by Mars, Inc and everyone else.

If you squint and blur your vision

you can see in them the millions

I’ve made by selling and being sold

blue eyes, blonde hair, white skin, big smiles.


Now the world is getting wise

and it wants the wild-dancing darkness

of bodies that don't melt in the sun.


It is thirsty for

red beet blood

and onion tears,

the fuck-you kale bitter

garlic stench of earthy vegetables

formed without regard for tongues.


I am scrubbing all over

to see if my blood runs red.

If my eyes see as gray-green

and if mousy waves can grow

wild enough to make me forget

that I was ever made for greedy men.


C. Marie Myracle lives in Nashville, Tennessee