Blood Avocado

In the low-boughed trees of Moreliaalligator-green avocados hang,warm in the balmy Mexican breeze.The farmer plows, furrows, digs trenchesuntil his knuckles are bloodied,his brow wet with salt.The drug cartel came this morningwanting their cut—1.86 pesosfor every kilogram of avocados—last summer he saw themcut off a woman’s headbecause she couldn’t pay.Her knees buckled under her,as her body sank to the round.The price goes up every day.Nunca es suficiente.

A country away, a woman slices cleanlyon a yellow Formica countertopand scoops out its pale, buttery flesh,eating it with a spoon.