The Mysterious Human Heart - Matthew Dickman
The produce in New York is really just produce, oranges and cabbage, celery and beets, pomegranates with their hundred seeds, carrots and honey, walnuts and thirteen varieties of apples. On Monday morning I will walk down to the market with my heart inside me, mysterious, something I will never get to hold in my hands, something I will never understand. Not like the apricots and potatoes, the albino asparagus wrapped in damp paper towels, their tips like the spark of a match, the bunches of daisies, almost more a weed than a flower, the clementine, the sausage links and chicken hung in the window, facing the street where my heart is president of the Association for Random Desire, a series of complex yeas and nays, where I pick up the plantain, the ginger root, the sprig of cilantro that makes me human, makes me a citizen with the right to vote, to bear arms, the right to assemble and fall in love.