by Denyce Blackman
Today I went straight instead of turning right
and there were tents that I’d never seen seeping onto the streets like thick honey
Their bounty lay spread open and vulnerable
Tiny mangoes were prodded then bought and sold
in bright plastic bags
I saw fruit with wrinkly faces
watching my saunter
They sat in their stands as spectators
Skin hard and hot in the sun
and steam from roasted corn
Vendors’ perspiration and red faces told the time in the market
where cars slowed and parked to buy cheaps sweets paraded on platforms
A woman with red tips and white roots hunches over a pile of plastic wrap
stretched over the breasts of small triangular fruits
pinned to a flat piece of Styrofoam
Red, purple, orange and pink revealed age and sweetness
“Pode escolher o seu, senhora.”
Old eyes peered and counted change
I saw young boys in tall white hats
shouting into the air as they pressed the bodies of fat, white blocks
against a giant sieve
Powder delicately falling like cocaine
Brothels of speckled nuts shattered in boxes
handpicked by a girl with no regard for time
The best of them catching the glances of the hungry
Curly hair and straight slinked by tables of fish
Eyes and mouths gaping
Bodies lying naked on their sides
Butchers’ hands fondle and slice
Their eyes stare at girls who wander past
Music from the ribbon of bars battled for attention with the voices of blazing eyes
selling pasteis
“Diga, meu amor!”
Menus of options, fillings, flavours and sizes
The sweetest, the softest and the sexiest food
“Pra viagem?”
“Pra levar, sim.”
I took my prize in a paper bag and found my old road
passing the people buying coins with their mangoes
Small, round and shiny.
MayITalkToYou 