and the bed breathing in lonely tides.
Electric murmur where I heard,
telephones soaking conversations
from home to far-away home
and the taste of
someone speaking low in the kitchen.
I listen in cut fruit.
Mornings are tired even with the sun,
even with the peaches smelling like summer,
but there is no fooling, it is not.
In the kitchen there will be
a bowl of them picked
from a tree nobody in this house knows.
I taste in red-violet insides.
Down South it is warmer,
and somebody told me the people are warmer too
only because there are peaches, always fresh.
Lick your fingers
like sucking on the shock of a sunrise over the
snow flushed red with cheeks.
O cold and juiced peach,
I feel them it fossilized pits
like the hands of a grandfather.
In the kitchen
breathes the specter of you, not yet grown.
I have not quite bitten into
your softest parts.
In the kitchen the knives are set where
they will be safest, though undeniably lonely.
Precaution– they are dull enough to spring from peaches
when we cut them with salt for eggs.
When the blade
hits my skin in a growing, floral red,
the meal is forgotten.
I cry into the slow dipping of newborn skin.
There are no babies here, which
I’ve considered a good thing,
though sometimes I would like to see
a face that looks back at me
and knows the world in small things.