september 17th

Mouffetard Market
figs, fresh figs! fresh from
Spain just this morning!
your voice breaks as you
cry the daily specials
over the colourful cacophony of the market.
the pints of the bulbous
creatures are brimming,
the figs themselves are bursting,
the fuchsia seeds yearning
to break through their soft, deep purple
skin. the strawberries! fresh
strawberries! smell like summer
& messy-faced kids.
you tell me that these strawberries
are fresh from the south of France, and
you ask where i come from.

dates are spread out across the fruit stalls,
still connected to the branches that they grew on;
they are sticky & corpulent;
they are from Tunisia.
i reach out to touch them and you scold
me - these dates are yours to touch, to arrange, to test for ripeness.
i blush,
you ask me where i come from,
i point to the figs.
you caress them tenderly, picking them up
individually, squeezing gently.

again, you ask where i come from.
you’d like to understand me
in the way that you do your produce.
mouth full of fig, i say
“I arrived just this morning.”