A poem for our time by my special friend, published poet and psychic, Joanne Clarkson. For further information about her: joanneclarkson.com will do the trick.
A Pear for Peace
Everyone has a right to pears. Or a
pomegranate. Or the sift of flour
unbleached. She volunteered, in the wake
of hatred, to take Muslim women
shopping. To pick them up in twos
and threes, buckle them into her Prius.
Drive them to the neighborhood Safeway,
Winco, Cash-and-Carry and stand guard.
A small, dogged widow known only
for banana bread and applesauce.
They huddled together over a bin
of plum, like nuns wearing rainbow
habits. They whispered about celery
in voices of spice. And she wondered
whether ignorance or envy
made other carts rattle and lunge,
caged sabers, while she hovered near
sweet potatoes, praying to a watermelon
god, ready to take the first shove,
spittled with threat. She went
first at the check-out stand, helping
each wife make change,
pay nothing not owed for lentils
or a green, ripe, seamless globe.