The greengrocer counts
the shriveled, wrinkled,
inhuman apples,
and then he sells me
celery past it prime
and six green bananas.
And I take them all.
Seated in the back,
mute, his wife watches.
They’re newly established.
Their go at it, like others,
won’t make it a month,
so their eyes tell you.
translated from the Spanish
by Kathleen Snodgrass
Published in the March 25, 2016 issue: View Contents
