I go early to hear the citrus tales of pomelos and satsumas in

January, discuss the snap with favas in May, have a word with

a merchant without saying anything, hold a coin bag in one hand

and with the other chat with an unsuspecting tomato. Market

speak is the language of being a girl walking with my mother

down narrow lanes in the mercado, sweat streaming brow, dogs

impatient weaving between legs, stealthy robbers articulating

sneak, sellers shouting incantations to buy this cure-all remedy

and for a bargain, una mano, all the fruit that can fit in the palm

of your hand. At every turn my local farmers market betrays

the one I long for. The mercado I search lives dormant, rhyming

festive and mom, inside my heart.