on my arm as I pay him. I don't tell him my mother
has just died, and it's for her.      When he turns
to get a bag, I see the peacock on his shoulder
emerging from his muscle-T.     Twenty of my swallow
would fit inside it.             Did you hear
It's stupid of me, insensitive, but I am only half human today.

Where? He asks.                 His eyes are thoughtful,
               dark, the brows full black, with stray hairs in the middle.
His jaw is still young, won't finish widening for years yet.

How can I speak?                          Is the honey really local? I ask.
   
Grinning, he shakes his head no, no, side to side,
                but says, Yes, sure is.

I look at a bin of roma tomatoes
                then up toward the hilly horizon, yellow
                with a grass I can't name, and hear a sob,
and know it's from me,
my face muscle composure collapsing
for a moment.                      How can I tell him
it is the ripeness,
the taut arc of skin on these fruits picked by someone I don't know,
or that I won't walk on these hills I am driving through
or that I wonder how many men laid this asphalt
we stand on that smokes in this hotter than normal day,
and that I know the cracks are shovel-filled at night
anonymously by public works workers here, as everywhere?

Who has laid these white lines in the parking lot? I want to ask.
Who filled this jar
               of honey now in my hand?                 My face recomposes,
so I am no longer a monster. Or at least no longer look like one.
I pay five dollars for what would,
               back home, at Sickles Market,
               cost nine.
He holds out the change, and I graze
my knuckles along his palm
as I take
what I'm due.