The Click

How my hand knows before my mind does

How does a hand know what the head doesn’t yet?

I walk along a crate of apples.
No gloves. Never.

My eyes rush ahead: this one. Glossy. Even. Like a postcard.
I don’t listen to them.

My palm moves over the apples. Slowly. Sometimes touching, sometimes not.
I’m not looking for anything.

And then…
click.

This one. Not because it’s beautiful. Just: this one.

At home, I cut it open. Sweet. Juicy. Exactly right.

There is an opposite case.

An apple that has just begun to spoil. My palm knows it instantly. It’s different. It already has a different philosophy.

It is no longer saying eat me. It is saying let me go: return to the earth, become food for the seeds inside.

My palm doesn’t read the color. My palm reads the direction.

At the meat counter, two chickens lie side by side.
One is golden and rosy, like an advertisement.
The other looks plainer. And costs more.