Hunter Gatherer
Old woman pushes slowly down the aisle
gathering the night's scroungings.
Her hands, scuffed,
cracked as kitchen linoleum,
roam over tender tomatoes,
probe eggplants for hidden softness,
heft potato and onion, know their weight.
Once, she owned the secret of seasons -
the two weeks, peaches would explode on her tongue,
the rhythm of rutabaga, radishes.
She pauses at the apples, picks one,
holds it near as if learning an infant's eyes,
squints at the lipstick red skin,
tries to recall something of the world
from this GMO crystal ball,
but she can't hear the pesticide hiss,
the goodbye whispers of heritage cultivars,
tomorrow's larger silence.
Old woman wraps it in plastic
and is ready to go.
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