half eaten peach:
a hidden ancient mollusk mind,
with heaps
and full hands of flesh, meat, veins, and blood.
bruised and lumpy from all those before me
who wanted to know if you were ready
and yet checking
did much damage —
your skin rough with dust buried under your eyes,
your shoulders plump and high to hide and cover
the words in your chest,
your arms crossed,
and never knowing what to do with your beautiful hands.
but you’re still in tact, hide embroidered,
scars and bruises as receipts of grief for your love,
and yet, flesh still so soft, still so sweet, still so wired to your soul.
so young. so beautiful for still loving.
and peaches do not have layers,
so i am sorry,
it must be so confusing
to not know where your warm fuzzy shell ends
and soul begins.
you are not like the winding puzzling protected orange,
nor the thin skinned romantic of the summer blueberry,
you are maple and sunset at the edges,
holy rising from the sun of your jagged granite heart.
and you are the seed —
that bloom, oh blooming so well to come —
but also all the flesh,
sweet, sour,
bleeding,
that you’ve made for yourself.
here too, i’d like to say,
that as i have taken everything from you,
enjoyed every bite,
i still love your rough wrinkled beaten porous soul.
i twirl your pit on my tongue, maybe just
to show you that you don’t need sweet fruit
and softness.
you can be sharp too.
i’ll still love you.
but do not lose your faith in that softness,
and the sweetness of your love.
if you do want the glow of flesh
i will plant you,
and wait to meet you
as some other life.
