Today we will buy garlic from the Hmong woman with no teeth,
thinking we know something about the humid forests and many
hills of her childhood, just because we have eaten Pho
and liked it. As she gums her withered mouth, we will nod and point,
point and nod, feeling the subterfuge in our smiles. Because, even
without words, we both know we do not speak the same
language. By noon the pavement will be a tattered tapestry
of wilted lettuce and bleeding pears. The flies, dining with the carnal
pleasure of glutinous kings, their mouths slick and sticky with largess.
People complain that we don’t have enough. Or is it just that the scales
are out of balance? The woman with no teeth, when no one is near, will gaze down at her burled hands, her fingers smelling of lemongrass
and copper pennies. She will wonder if she has earned enough this day
to pay down her handshake lease, and if she remembered to drape
the old plastic shower curtain over the rototiller before it rains. Flush with sweet produce and lopsided deeds, we will peddle home, our Dorothy-of-Oz
wicker baskets spilling over, recipes clicking in our heads. The kitchen ambrosial with Pot Au Feu and pickling spice, over-abundance, onus, and blackberry jam.