Gorgeousness
The sun has dried the mud,
turning it into dust that windmills
around the wheels of the car,
as we navigate the narrow, winding roads
leading to Wednesday’s market.
At this social event, near the jagged ridges
of the Pyrenees, the French kiss,
and kiss again. Back home, in England,
we sneak around the backs of stalls
to avoid one another, to not have to interact.
There is a tender friendless to the people here,
a lack of rush. Vendors arrived early
to carefully lay out tiny Jerusalem artichokes,
mushrooms – all shapes and sizes, and truffles.
To skewer cooked chicken and hang smoked garlic,
fill paper lined bowls with tarragon, rosemary and sage.
Small barrels are packed with fat green almonds,
spicy crystallized ginger and olives cured with thick,
glossy oil. Dry sausages hang from the beams
of stalls and hundreds of varieties of cheese
sweat in their paper packaging.
Oranges, tangerines, peaches,
cherries, grapefruits, dried apricots,
dates and plums shift quietly in large white sacks.
Food is precious here and valued,
always treated with respect, always.
We sit outside a cramped cafe.
There is red lipstick on my glass,
smeared over fingerprints.
On the other side of the road is Giuseppe.
He has hardly any intestines left,
after cancer latched on and wouldn’t let go.
Her bohemian clothes smother his slight,
wreaked body, but his smile is sky wide,
his eyes as deep as the sea.
Back at the house, midday, like usual,
it is cool, the shadows soothe our hot skin.
We eat flan with bread, tomatoes and hummus,
and drink fresh, cold water
We are healthy, we are full and life is gorgeous.
