Originally posted 10/29/2008, titled “Wet Market.”
A woman stops
at one of the stalls
that offers words for sale
and wonders
what nourishment she can take from
there is a flower
that grows in plastique
and blooms in blood.
Someone else weighs the possibilities
of
Valkyrie
against those of
Knight Rider Barbie,
tries to choose, fails,
buys both and moves on.
A third rejects all the proffered produce of love,
the red breath,
the silk finger,
the charred emerald eyes.
The seller
throws his hands out in disgust.
Modern diamond or heirloom adamantine?
Is the dusk blue or azure?
Is this a stream or a creek
running under
sky or heaven or firmament?
People head for home
after hours of haggling,
passing
a small table
outside the bounds of the market
that holds bowls of fresh water,
herbs, fresh spiced fish
soaked in lime juice.
A sign on the table reads:
Whoever tastes the fresh water
will want to taste the herbs.
Whoever tastes the herbs
will want to taste the fish.
Whoever tastes the fish
will turn from the market
and go home simple and satisfied.
If the sign had advertised
ceviche, or if the sign had advertised
magic for the belly,
this might have been
a different story.
But after too many stands serving
quick meals, too many ways to overfill
basic needs and answer want with gluttony,
there’s no need to ask
Who will stop there?
because it’s already clear:
no one.
Dark Matter 