Hybrid: “ODE TO THE GROCERY” by Monica Rico

The folds of the               carnation differ from                      the dog ear                         of the rose,

the sticky           paper of baby’s                breath, or the closed                       mouth of the tulip

turning               toward the fur                   of the sunflower head; the way                   glads are

always               soaking                wet and look like they’ve               been hacked,

prehistoric— like             curling ribbon                   between thumb and                        scissor in

one zip;              or it rips like        the shark                            skin of an orange               and its

puckered                           belly      button;                the regularly       priced     rotten avocado

caving in           my hand, shaking             water from         radish leaves,    and the

polished            cheek     of a        tomato                separated from its           pungent               stem.

I miss                                  knocking             on a watermelon              and asking is anybody home; my

father     rolling                 a cayenne                          between his        fingers                 and counting the

pop         of each              seed; bright        lemons and       limes                     pressed                 under the

weight                  of my    palm into a wheel                          of fainting pulp;                the noble

shallot,                 hidden                 behind the garlic, dirty                 and forgotten untamed

cousin to the                     onion; mushrooms           still clinging                     to earth, concealing

their circle           of gills                  from the              parsley                who will demand             they be

removed,             so as     to           not          cloud    the sauce;          the shawls          of lettuce,

ruffled                   collars, and        pleats     so         perfect                  they should       be displayed in

their entirety—                  uncut and            spun;    the weight of                     an asian pear    in my

hand,    each       bite       a spill    and suck              that cannot        stop the                 escaping water.

About Monica Rico

Monica Rico is Mexican American and the author of PINION, winner of the Four Way Books Levis Prize in Poetry selected by Kaveh Akbar. She holds an MFA from the University of Michigan’s HZWP and is the Program Manager Bear River Writers’ Conference. She has recently published poems in Poetry Northwest’s Life List, Gastronomica, and The Missouri Review. Follow her at www.monicaricopoet.com.