AN ABIDING SADNESS AT THE
SUPERMARKET

Buy this shrink-wrapped honeydew melon,
or this baby food, and later, something
to mask the perfume of pee on flannel robes.

Communion wafers guide the old woman who
pushes the jail of her shopping cart, while a lava
of mumbled prayers follows her down the aisles.

The magic of money brings it all from far away.
Perhaps she picks a sprig of mint and then holy
singing issues from the shelf as a fresh spray

mists the celery. Is that your mother planning
a thousand meals? She buys those pasta shells
because she likes them so much. All the rest

is habit: fig bars for her son, grapes for her
daughter, beer for her husband who drinks.
See how her hand opens the freezer door,

but the consummate moment evades her
reach.
Heavy bags of charcoal and kitty litter rest
like stacked tombstones. The hand that peels

the orange stroked his hair at night like a hand
come down from heaven that someday feeds
our human hunger with milk and honey.

Raise up boys and girls orphaned to desire
and open the airtight disappointment of nuns.
Broken glass like broken hearts scatters

on the market floor. Here is the wide philosophy
of loss: a voice then interrupts the Muzac
to announce her fall, "Cleanup in aisle three!"

Robert Klein Engler