Shopping local, eating lo
-cal, just a loco California
transplant in the desert.
Who would have thought
living local meant
eating food farmed in the
irrigated land once populated
by Tohono O’odham and Pima
and Apache and Ak-Chin and others.
The farmers still use the same canals.
The farmer’s market woman,
discreetly nursing her baby,
promises it’s all organic, but how does she know
pollution didn’t graze it once, accidentally,
on a heavy-particulate day?
Or does that count in organic food?
It couldn’t be worse than
GMOs produced by massive
factory-farms, the future-food fed chemicals
through water, soil, and science
invented, patent-protected, fiercely litigated
so that various bits of insect and
“other” DNA will change it at a molecular level.
Safely pre-poisoned with insect repellent and
ready-freddy, let’s feed the masses.
So I figure local must be better than that.
and take the oddly-shaped zucchini home,
remembering the chubby baby’s milky smile.
The tomatoes are sun-ripened, not yellow-green
and hard. The eggplant is shiny-purple, and
has an insect bite-mark on it.
Safe for insects probably means it’s
safe for people too.
Written for Poetic Asides November poem-a-day challenge, prompt, Local.