Peach
I kneel to the ground fall peach,
its russet belly, its honey streaks,
touch its new tough skin, run my thumb
along its deep, sexy cleft. I pluck another
from a low branch, tug it down into
captivity like an animal caught
in a bramble, scooped into my arms
that open to return it to the wide field
of my cutting board where I lift
the knife, slice around the stony pit,
its purple edges bleeding into the gold flesh
in a starburst, and like a star
becoming into silence, miniscule
pulse of living light from this distance,
has been making itself over and over
from the fire within it, like the sound hole
of a violin that welcomes any dark music.
To think we can eat a sunset,
convicted, as we are, to the mud
of this earth, knees dark with dirt, hands
sticky with essence, to think I too
am here in this cleft body, a being
split into parts and seamed back
together, swollen with desire,
hungry for the sun.
