“Who else is in the market for a pint
of papaya juice, a scruple of compassion
We want so much before it’s taken from us,
objects cry out, the things
of this world, they are magnificent,
they glow—the radiance archive,
everything that shines is in it.
Still, the lemon tree levies a tax upon my soul.
Flowers strike their tiny hammer blows.
The city makes its thousand demands,
the city is a honeycomb
of needs.
Right now, I tell you
I am listening to something that says
let it go, fear not, rise
along with me
into a sky the color of amethyst and copper dust.
It is not a voice, it is not even a bird,
but I am listening.
I believe it may be the light
itself speaking to me”
The Mercy Supermarket, Campbell McGrath; from New Yorker May 23, 2022 Issue
