Those summer peaches were just perfect

big and rosy ripe for feasting

so I ate far too many

sitting small in the yard

small beneath the vastness

of a flagrantly warm August sky

while you stood swallowed

by dancing grey shadows

behind the crooked screen door

your thin body watching

bent and watching

and your hands

so clean, wrinkled skin thin as tissue

pale translucence clinging tight

to your apron

rolling and rolling

the white cotton around

calling

secrets hanging

on your voice

something hollow

calling

child, you have had plenty, are you not happy

until you have eaten every one?

but that made no sense

because I was very, very happy

right there

right then

with one more peach

gripped firm in both hands

taut skin snap folding

into soft gold flesh

so cool sweet between my teeth

dripping sticky plenty through my fingers

crystal drops staining, flowing

sucked ruthless by the thirsty roots

of dying summer grass

and your tissue paper hands rolled

a flicker of sunlight grabbing

at your arm

at the faded black marks needled there

at the haunting lack you would forever know

Maureen Donatelli’s poem Seeds appeared at vox poetica in March 2011.