The Woman in the Market
Que quiere hija, que quiere?
The sweetness of rotten
papaya glues a layer of sap
to my eyelids. Lista para hoy,
ripe today, she tries. I buy it
anyway. Its strange leprous
flesh warm as mine.
Even supine, my hands
split the rind. I notice
her later, walking alone
over ruptured cobblestone.
With apparent ease she shifts
a basket I could barely lift
from head to hip, sways
with the shade beneath
verandas, until she drifts
through a hidden door
in a bullet-strafed wall.
I glimpse a shadowy parlor
of dark wood, yellow lace.
A rocking chair cradles
some ancient abuelita,
made mostly of tendon
and bone. I hear
the offended church-
lady clucks of chickens
shooed from the kitchen,
before the rusty screen door bleats
shut—a hymn for the men
who are missing.