Blood Avocado

In the low-boughed trees of Morelia
alligator-green avocados hang,
warm in the balmy Mexican breeze.
The farmer plows, furrows, digs trenches
until his knuckles are bloodied,
his brow wet with salt.
The drug cartel came this morning
wanting their cut—1.86 pesos
for every kilogram of avocados—
last summer he saw them
cut off a woman’s head
because 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 cleanly
on a yellow Formica countertop
and scoops out its pale, buttery flesh,
eating it with a spoon.