A briefest moment of passing weakness
A briefest moment of passing weakness
Even though, at the end, it sits
at the bottom of the garbage,
thrown away when you bit into a bruise
and found out you'd bought a bad peach
(each to
each to
each
)
afterwards, the bitterness
begins
to recede.
After you sleep on it. After
you wake up too many mornings
of an empty belly. The resentment mutes;
mosses away, even the anger at the stupid
deceit. You start remembering everything else:
the first soft bite, when the outside
was fine, when your teeth sank
and tongue tasted, when you took care
to be slow, and allowed it to linger.
When the knife was safe
in the drawer
and the peels spiraled
in the sink.
Go further. Before that, when you'd
just seen it, that peach, looking
perfect and livid in the morning sun.
When it huddled between its brothers
at the stall.
Longing made you walk over
and spend your last coin.
Your palm was filled, and kept
you balanced as you walked home.
You knew you would wash it,
the peach, and
yourself, to ready for feasting.
The cicadas sang you up the broken shell path,
to the newly painted door,
and the knob turned easy,
and your shoes fell off,
and the cat purred,
as you crept in.
Backtrack now. Even further than that.
Before you saw the peach
before you saw the stall.
Before you stepped at the intersection
and could've missed it all had you taken
the left fork.
When you were still browsing at the market.
The sun still rose in increments
inch by inch by inch
and the people crowded and everything
still smelled heady and new somehow.
Knowing you were there to buy
but at loss as to what.
It could be a strand of necklace
for your grandmother who prefers
a drop of jade on a red thread.
Or a pair of slippers for a friend
whose own is worn and collapsed.
Options yawned around you,
and you touched their wet mouths,
and kissed their cheeks, for
you hadn't seen anything yet.
The taxi had just dropped you off.
And the forgetting hadn't begun,
when you slid your hand
into the back pocket
for the wallet and the fare,
because there was nothing to forget yet,
or to remember at that,
not the first bite
not the last,
not the pit that stared
into you like a purple
grasp, not the coin
with a hole in the center
that you spent and was your last.
The peach hadn't even begun
nor the walking to the stall,
and your feet were blessed
as it swung over the threshold
into the light.
TBfinished tmrw
Even though, at the end, it sits
at the bottom of the garbage,
thrown away when you bit into a bruise
and found out you'd bought a bad peach
(each to
each to
each
)
afterwards, the bitterness
begins
to recede.
After you sleep on it. After
you wake up too many mornings
of an empty belly. The resentment mutes;
mosses away, even the anger at the stupid
deceit. You start remembering everything else:
the first soft bite, when the outside
was fine, when your teeth sank
and tongue tasted, when you took care
to be slow, and allowed it to linger.
When the knife was safe
in the drawer
and the peels spiraled
in the sink.
Go further. Before that, when you'd
just seen it, that peach, looking
perfect and livid in the morning sun.
When it huddled between its brothers
at the stall.
Longing made you walk over
and spend your last coin.
Your palm was filled, and kept
you balanced as you walked home.
You knew you would wash it,
the peach, and
yourself, to ready for feasting.
The cicadas sang you up the broken shell path,
to the newly painted door,
and the knob turned easy,
and your shoes fell off,
and the cat purred,
as you crept in.
Backtrack now. Even further than that.
Before you saw the peach
before you saw the stall.
Before you stepped at the intersection
and could've missed it all had you taken
the left fork.
When you were still browsing at the market.
The sun still rose in increments
inch by inch by inch
and the people crowded and everything
still smelled heady and new somehow.
Knowing you were there to buy
but at loss as to what.
It could be a strand of necklace
for your grandmother who prefers
a drop of jade on a red thread.
Or a pair of slippers for a friend
whose own is worn and collapsed.
Options yawned around you,
and you touched their wet mouths,
and kissed their cheeks, for
you hadn't seen anything yet.
The taxi had just dropped you off.
And the forgetting hadn't begun,
when you slid your hand
into the back pocket
for the wallet and the fare,
because there was nothing to forget yet,
or to remember at that,
not the first bite
not the last,
not the pit that stared
into you like a purple
grasp, not the coin
with a hole in the center
that you spent and was your last.
The peach hadn't even begun
nor the walking to the stall,
and your feet were blessed
as it swung over the threshold
into the light.
TBfinished tmrw