To be a ripe peach, to be eaten

To be a ripe peach, to be eaten
in a darkened room, at the height of summer, torn
by her teeth. To sweeten the roughness of her tongue. To seep.
To ooze along the curl of her lips. In her mouth,
to lose my grip on shape. Dissolving                  
into the threads of her saliva, disappearing
between her teeth.

Not to be damaged during long winter months of growth.
Mindful of the beaks of birds. Mincing aphids. Groping hands.
In the cool black of the pit, to guard the gateways of her desire. Slowly
taking on flesh. Nectar. To study the temptations of the wind. The uprightness of a tree.
The suppleness of a leaf.

To be picked in season. Transported.
To bear the weight of my brothers packed against me.
The rudeness of greengrocers. The impervious haste of shoppers. The pain
of the betrayal of a branch.

To wait on the outskirts of her existence. To conceive      
the tapping of her steps. To press into the folds of her eyes. To transcribe
the curve of her back. To increase     
as far as possible and at her touch
relax. To roll about, refreshed and blushing. To be eaten.
In a darkened room. At the height of summer.  To be
in season splendidly.

To be a ripe peach, to be eaten