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Jeanne Marie Beaumont USA
Commerce
I am in the market.
The sad smell of cidering buzzes my nose.
I slacken the leash of my eyes
and they roam from tent to tent.
Under glass, gold timepieces
are unwinding their pasts.
Scarves of all nations flap on taut lines.
The market has been on this spot a long time.
A pyramid of oranges is old as Telemachus.
Balloons knocking heads stuffed with air
from the colonies.
There’s no telling what can be had here, even
yourself.
Mementos.
Remnants.
The monkey who’s hungry.
Eggplants purpling to no clear purpose.
Air is grease, spice, cellar, and field.
Currency has changed hands so often it’s
flimsy—if wind catches, it will be gone.
It turns to dust passing from vendee to vendor
who squeezes it in his palms and makes small change.
All change is small but constant.
I am in the market
for exquisite mint objects I desire I would pay dearly.
Remarkably, you’re in the market too.
The longer we stay, the heavier our bags.
Heavy the air with smoke, bicker, hubbub, fleas.
Which came first, the one wanting eggs
or the one selling chickens?
The woman with gold teeth laughs.
She has carpets unrolled and marked down to fly.
Free kittens, a bargain at twice the price.
A dealer of medicines waits in the market
fingering liniments, tinctures, pomades.
You take lozenges that melt on your tongue
saying better.
You get a discount for your disease.
I buy capsules to sleep like there’s no tomorrow.
I wake in the market.
I’m in the market.
I can’t recall who my enemy is.
from Placebo Effects, © 1997 by Jeanne Marie
Beaumont. |
