I went back to the market but it was not the same, 
because my friend was dead and I was looking at 
all the beautiful things she could not see.
I knew she would have loved the bundled radishes,

the tutus and flamenco skirts of lettuces, the delicate 
green beans and the women scooping up great handfuls 
of them into their plastic bags. And the bottles of rosé, 
blushing in the light, and the street that winds down

from the church where Mass was being held,
while outside we celebrated the Mass of artichokes 
and cauliflowers, roasted pigs and curled dead quail 
and newly dug potatoes, fragrant round cheeses

of Rocamadour and strange flattened peaches, 
dense local cakes, jar after jar of pale foie gras, the rows 
f bluely glistening mackerel, the giant tuna
with its black and ruby flesh, stolen from the sea.