Snowdrop in the Supermarket

Some folks requested the rest of “Snowdrop in the Supermarket at Midnight,” the poem mentioned in “Publishing Tales 2: Mistakes Were Made.” Below is the full version, which also appears in my chapbook, Woman with Crows.

The work previously appeared in The Anthology of Appalachian Writers. It also won first place in the in the Wytheville Chautauqua Festival creative writing contest.

Snowdrop in the Supermarket at Midnight

Glass doors slide closed, sealing
me in the chilled air; everything dying
is perfectly preserved. Metal bins
gleam, and a gloss of water
glistens on green plastic turf.

Fruit is piled like promises: pale orbs
of honeydew, mesh bags of limes. The curve
of a cantaloupe cracks like a potter’s glaze,
and persimmons burn dim crimson
beside the dignified lumber of plantains.

I heft the fleshy gold of oranges,
bright tangerines, bastard tangelos,
baroque and burnished pomegranates,
the jumbled purple plums. There is no red
more red than cherries studded
with crystal, no yellow brighter
than the panes of pineapple,
no blue more other-worldly
than frosted globes of grapes.

And in that moment, I would trade
the whole waxy rainbow
for one crisp winesap,
dappled with sun, sugared
with September, its white flesh
sweeter than honey in the mouth.

All rights belong to April J. Asbury. Do not reprint, alter, or redistribute without express permission.