by KELLY ZEN-YIE TSAI
A bodega is a convenience store that carries Hispanic groceries. PHOTO/The Electronic Schoolhouse
in the pacific northwest,
the farmer offered me a carrot to eat,
and i said,”from the ground?!”
she brushed the dirt off with her fingers,
ran the tiny vegetable under the spray of a garden hose,
long, feathery greens sprouted from its crown
i took a bite, and waited,
to see what would happen to me
nothing
just delicious
and real
and from the ground
all over new york,
our soil is neither sacred nor safe.
lead meets barium meets broken glass
soil that’s been stripped and strapped
under the constant pressure
of 8 million lives in motion
at midnight, i climb subway stairs
stop at the corner bodega
lights dimmed, doors locked
a man emerges from shadow
i push a dollar into the bullet-proof
lazy susan, he pushes back a
package of Reese’s peanut butter cups
macaroni and cheese for a dollar ninety-nine
sour cream and onion chips for twenty five cents
cherry fruit pies for ninety-nine cents
boil in bag white rice for a dollar fifty
faded cans of spaghetti and meatballs
dusty on the shelf, next to aluminum foil
and lottery tickets
how to feed a family of three
how to feed a family of four
how to feed a family of five
how to feed a family of six
is fresh food really a human right for all?
in the void that corporate grocery store’s
refuse to fill?
on the next block over, neighbors construct raised
beds, chicken coops, and lattices
hands pick through seeds to sow and water
stalks turn yellow and green
saturday farmer’s markets send down fruits and
vegetables from small farms upstate
fragmented landscape dotted with reminders
that we don’t just live on this place, but of it.
Kelly Tsai’s blog is Yellow Gurl