sic

by Jessica Scicchitano

,that bodega
over there
as close as you'll come
to now,
if
now's
something that sits amid four walls.
The blue-purple covering the hovering
blackbird's neck, the alignment –
BLACKBERRIES –
fresh ransom to passer-by.
No one toting rosary,
tallying CARROTS by Hail Mary,
Now
is only
now
3, possibly 4 x per week.
Zero time
to write sins on your cheques or cheques
to your sins.
The deep technique of KIWI,
its fuzz erotic from byzantine humidity,
sour from thought on how to
pronounce their location of origin;
here comes the texture of a clock.
The cardboard sign that bares
JUICY ORNAGES [sic]
your name, more ripe,
the gusto, my terror –
hey –
Boar's Head turkey,
slivered by moonlight.
The briquettes – turn right –
bouquets
of Japanese Lanterns that rise and
fall
caught by a fuck-ton of Boricuas,
thoughtful bankers.
Are you the undertaker of last week's sunflowers?
Do
you
load the scroll of Lotto?
Will that bee
sacrifice itself for you
as it comes for those SPECIAL MANGOES,
those GOLDEN DELICIOUS?
Hold still,
wring speed until it's sweet,