Peaches
You love those peaches
the ones that bloomed in the bright heat
to form ripe masses of sweet
sweet plump bundles that seeped
glistening strings of heady juice
that slid down your chin and accumulated
in thick puddles that clung to your lap
You love those peaches
they grew until their skin stretched thin
and threatened to burst along the tepid grass
But the summer lasted a second too long
and the peaches slumped onto the gelid cement
slowly rotting in the hum of the setting sun
their juices coating the stone in thin rivulets
and then sun stopped shining as much
and the frost kissed plant shriveled in on itself
And you chopped down that peach tree
it took three hits before the ground shook
with the unbearable weight of the frail tree
And now
the sun beats down on the empty yard this summer
and we sit cramped together under the sting of the fluorescent lights
gnawing on peaches fresh from the market
mumbling about our day
despite the fact that half of it gets butchered by translation
And it's there
choking down dehydrated clumps of petite peaches
dusted in pastel gradients of yellow
when I struggle to swallow my tongue
desperate to crack open my ribs
and tear down the walls
with painful screams
because
I hate those peaches