Market

all of the lights in the store have gone burnt
dim gaping shelves bent back like bones
breathing fruit rot and dust and no one
around to bat my basket about
bread eggs cream plumb out but
the meat’s cheap

.

.

Faux Fruit

True drupes. Spun sheet peel, pulp
porcelain squeezed to shatter juice,
strained steel seed, sour. Roughcast
arillode plucked from the ironvine,
icicle vesicle, cold metamorphic
crop, limestone pomes leaking on
the chopblock. Mother, I bought
them for you, for the holiday.

.

.


Inga Lea Schmidt holds an MFA from Hollins University and currently lives in Pittsburgh. Her poems have appeared or will appear in Puerto del Sol, Packingtown Review, Gigantic Sequins, CALAMITY, and elsewhere. She wrote this bio while wearing a fluffy sheep-patterned bathrobe.