I Try To Converse With The Women Selling Vegetables

I know I am young
The women selling vegetables call me joven
Their hands
Sculptures of the seasons
Remind me
I see sky and dusty rafters
In their eyes
Their talk of weather and prices
Sounds like long-lost wisdom
In three tomatoes
A papery onion
And sprigs of cilantro
Is contained the idea
My idea
Yet unordered
Familiar tastes and memory of the vegetable shop
I’ve altered ratios taught by my mother
Glimpsed secret stairways
Mourning women
Sunrises and tumbleweeds
I’ve placed myself on farms
In caves
On tormented boats
And yet I wonder if I’ll know
When I’ve arrived