Copihue Poetry

“Oh, we source our coconuts from there!” was the first thing,
the shift manager said after handing me my hair net. We walked
 

around near the loading docks facing the hall of cookies in boxes,
awaiting sorting. I was introduced to a partner, a driver who seemed
 

used to working with people from the temp agency. Deciding to carry on
the conversation, he said he loves those pork rinds from the Asian grocery.
 

I said the pig skin, considered waste, actually comes from slaughterhouses
in Europe then imported in the Philippines to be cooked in their own oil.
 

He loved the trivia. “Food really has a way of getting around the world
don’t they?” The bell rang, we went to door with the container truck
 

assigned to us. My partner was flipping through the manifest for the day,
I was careful not to get in the path of the forklift trucks going back and forth.