Posts Tagged ‘peach’

It is night
that keeps the peach
from ripening too fast,
the cool of the dark
that allows the sugar
to develop, to grow—
oh soul, is it any wonder
I have started
to pray for longer nights?

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At Last

After a week, at last the peaches
on the counter smell like peaches,
their sweet summer scent reaching
across the room to where I sit
trying to balance numbers.
The scent is like a flirty lover
who won’t take no for answer,
who trails fingertips down my cheek
and neck and lightly tugs at my collar,
then tilts my head back
to whisper into my ear,
Isn’t there something you’d rather
be doing, my dear?
And damn if I’m not distracted
and hungry and all I want
is to sink my teeth into peach
and that’s what I do.
So much of life feels like letting go,
but tonight life says,
Pick me up, sweetheart. Take me in.
And the gold sticky juice
runs all over those numbers.
I lick my fingers clean.

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the math teacher walked through the door
and went straight to the empty blackboard.
He did not say a word, did not look
at the class. He drew a perfect circle.
Then with his back to our eyes,
he began to write the proof for the area
of a circle. His chalk clicked against the emptiness,
filling the space with points x and y and
cos and sin and theta and n and limits and infinity.
The room was cold. The proof was brief
and elegant. He stood back and crossed his arms
over his chest as he stared at the work.
That, he said in a voice both humbled and grand,
is more beautiful than any poem ever written.
Though I could not feel any warmth for the proof,
nor for the man who averted our gaze, I did admire
his reverence, and drew in my notebook
an imperfect circle more like the shape of a peach—
something sweet and golden and soft,
its juice about to spill across the page.

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the thousandth peach
tasting it
as if it were the first

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Let the beauty we love be what we do.

Sometimes after blanching
the skin peels right off the peach.

It takes only a few minutes
for the naked fruit to glisten,

produce its own coat of sheen.
Slippery and lovely,

if you’ve ever held one,
they wear the same fire

as their skin. Some years,
there are no peaches. Frost

in the buds or the blossoms.
The orchard is a sad place, then.

But this peach, this Rosa,
lustrous and falling out of its skin,

was lucky as I am lucky tonight
to be alive, lucky to be turning the peach

in my hands, slicing into its flesh,
cleaving the halves from the dark red pit

with all the beauty I can muster.

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eating the peach
I bite into six years ago
another peach


and every shard of me
gasps love, love

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Not the perfect ones
hanging from the bough,
red and hard in the hand,

but the fallen ones,
sun warmed, likely bruised,
often with earwigs

that squirm out the top,
oh these soft ones
nearly gone,

more nectar than flesh.
Do not be offended
when I offer you this peach.

I gaze into my heart.
It, too, is blemished,
scarred, bruised,

fallen, ready
to be yours.

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