Martius

In March, meet me at the Farmer’s Market
It’s where nothing’s ever broken, only bruised.
You can just cut through the sore spot
and eat around it.

We’ll talk over the juice of a peach
and shuffle heavy feet through corn husks, dry and crunchy
beneath our carelessness.
You’ll get a splinter handling a box of strawberries
and I’ll get a seed caught in my tooth.

A raspberry rumbles down from a table and onto
the shiny cement. It’s so ripe.
I see the bristles as it comes to a stop.
You step on it and keep going.