At the Farmer’s Market,

Ⅰ. At the local Farmer’s Market, her nose greets fresh strawberries ready to be smashed into jelly. There’s ice cream (chocolate) dripping down little hands. That’ll be licked too. Hummingbirds fly above her head. Bees buzz past. Juice from the apple squirt her face. The scent of sourdough bread draws a trail to her. A man selling bread that says It’s a dollar fifty, but for your precious buns I’ll bring it down to a dollar.

Ⅱ.                                                                                                                                                                  She drops a dollar on the table in front of her and grabs the loaf. The last time bees buzzed around her her face swelled up. On her father’s ranch. A bee jabbed its stinger straight into her right cheek. She didn’t need a mirror to see ice attached to her face, a tomato lookalike. She wanted to puke.

Ⅲ.                                                                                                            Looking at the loaf. It’s moldy. The apple is sour. Strawberry jelly is vomit. Everybody has a body attached to a head that looks like A man selling bread that says. Eyes linger too long at her breast, wrinkly hands, skinny legs, crooked toes. The sun hides and the farmer’s market is a graveyard of fear.

Alternate past 
	The last time she wanted bread. It was ruined. 
	Porque el guey en la troca negra grandisima 
	Le dijo: “¡Oye mamacita, chula, vete al mercado y comprame 
	pan o dame las tuyas!”
	She tasted cabrones like that in her bread for months.