A woman picks green beans, counts them,
weighs them, puts them back, the way
she chooses her friends, measures them,
tests them till they snap. She presses her nail
on pears till the skin gives, leaves a dirty moon
into the meat of the fruit that seems to recede
from touch like the shoulder of a woman
who was hit before, knows the cut of a slap.
She knows the pain of a mango
that has been probed, has turned to bruise,
juice bleeding into the skin. Snug in their crates,
avocadoes have learned to take the abuse,
expect the dissatisfied searching: tight,
not ready for guacamole tonight.