is in full swing; all of us drifting,
heavy-bodied and happy,
like figures of Brueghel,
among the fragrant stalls of strawberries
and apples and red peppers, honey
in amber jars, Amish cheese,
great brown loaves of bread,
the world proffering its bounty.
And then he comes gliding among us
on his tiny electric wheelchair, barely more
than a rolling pedestal since there's not much
to move, just a head and torso, the little of him
Iraq gave back. He's wearing a Grateful
Dead t-shirt which the girl walking with him
must have pulled over his head
and fitted tenderly over his stumps
before the two of them went out
to the market on this fall morning,
the rest of us suddenly staring hard
at the radishes and green sheaves of corn,
for we have never seen such vibrant carrots,
nor radishes quite so brazenly red,
nor come so close to understanding
the potatoes, wakened from their deep dream,
drowning in the world's light.
George Bilgere, Alaska Quarterly Review 32(1&2): 236
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