Farmers’ Market

Molly Fisk

Yesterday I was so lonely

I could barely walk,

my friend being mobbed

by her grandchildren

as we made our way

past the farmers’ market’s

delicata squashes, the last

tomatoes. I couldn’t think

what to buy—came home

with nothing but sweet

peppers, myriad colors

in a single flavor, an elusive

solitary note. I watched her

lay her cheek against

the downy faces, saying love

love love love, and would

have wept except I’m dry

of tears. I love how she loves

them and that she has them,

I love them all from my arm’s-

length distance, half-familiar

grandmother’s friend

with a laughing eye, glasses

one might want to pluck

from the top of  her head.

All that touch. That flesh.

The body heat. Fingers woven

together. I am starving.