Foods of All Nations

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Shalmi Barman

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I never feel so expertly from here
as in the dairy aisle at 8 AM,
pajama-clad, insouciantly unwashed,
comparing flavored yogurts. Empires fall
upon the price of eggs while we delay,
exchanging greetings by the sourdough
as neighbors should. And have you heard the news?
The soup du jour is broccoli. How they’ll clear
the old stock is beyond me. All must go,
the produce packed and shipped in unmarked vans
to Honduras, Brazil, and Mexico,
back to barrios and favelas where they don’t
have BOGO Tuesdays. Customer is king
we like to say. Our wallets speak with tongues
that bear no accents. Mine shed like a skin,
rubbed off in taxi rides and coffee shops
and first dates where we delicately probe
the shape of politics. Who could have known
that it would turn so quick? The rotting meat
sat on the freezer shelf and dripped and dripped.
Someone is crying in the parking lot
about redemption. Spillage near the beets.
Super deal on tomatoes this winter,
$6.99 for members only. Feel
it give under your thumb, bursting with seed,
bright talisman to guard against the eyes
that ask if you found everything you need.

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Shalmi Barman, originally from Calcutta, India, earned a PhD in English from the University of Virginia after writing a dissertation on class and labor in Victorian fiction. Her poetry has been featured in EcoTheo Review, Gyroscope Review, New Verse News, Rat’s Ass Review, Snakeskin, and elsewhere.

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