Fall 2026 Poem:

Market Day in Hamilton

All morning, the stalls
arrange their small devotions:

peaches blushing and tender,
cilantro singing its aroma
louder than all the fresh herbs,

fish bright in their silver rows,
fresh bread sweating behind glass,

the smell of coffee and cardamom
in the yet unspent morning.

The city’s hunger is public
and close.

I choose tomatoes
next to a woman with clever hands.

She shows me how to find the best ones,
how to examine without bruising.

It is a tactile sort of knowing.
Tender resistance, flesh answering before it breaks.

In their yellow sleep,
lemons roll towards me.

Tomatillos, small and proud
in their papery skins.

 I take my colours
to the counter:

red, yellow, green,

the morning gathered
into a canvas bag.

Outside, I step into
the mouth of the city.

Hamilton greets me
With its smokers collecting
like dew on the corners,

pigeons and scaffolds,
a channel of people
pouring in and out
of the library.

I carry the morning
into the street:

red, yellow, green,

a country of colour
swinging against my hip.

~ Lishai Peel