Morganne and I at the Saturday Morning Farmer’s Market

As we walk the aisles of onions,
broccoli, strawberries, and cherries,
I like to think we’re lovers picking
the reddest, most plump
tomatoes at the market for
Saturday night aphrodisiac dinner
(oysters and a bisque).
In front of the vendors I treat
her like my lover: I hold her bags
as she searches for buried money
under bushels of fresh spinach,
then help her pick the best batch
of raspberries-last week’s were moldy.
At home, we have male lovers.

One drunken night she looked at me
like a frightened five-year-old,
stringy blonde bangs a little wet from
sweating out the liquor; a hallucination
in her ear whispered it wanted her dead.
She said to me: You’re the only one that’s real
as her boyfriend frowned like a father
(half worry, half disregard) and put her to bed.

There was a day in Blanchard Park
when we were at the center of the sun,
a perfect egg of light circled by humming
cicada trees; we could of fallen
in love, but we were in love with men
who couldn’t love us back.

On Saturday morning we shop together,
an arranged marriage; she pays
cash for the food and I charge the coffee
as spring rain speckles our scalps and clothes;
it comes down harder as we sling full burlap bags
across our shoulders. On the way to the car, I
eye passers-by through wet lashes, saying:
don’t try; she’s mine.

2 Responses to “Morganne and I at the Saturday Morning Farmer’s Market”

  1. restorel66 Says:

    I like this one!

  2. Positively gorgeous throughout.

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