Peaches, or, a term of endearment for animals who prefer to be eaten.
i. The earwig proposes a thesis about circles:
There is no half.
ii. Her tallest dancer tastes terrible
in music but in pants
It matters not what one spots there
so long as they sad her in bed.
She asks if I ever miss dick then giggles,
cunnilinguaes the pedicel of a peach
(Her dad thanks me for taking care of her.)
iii. every dusk the saucers
dish my tender sill
i do not miss but
a bitter crib i thrill
The Guests slice each half
from clingstone ischia and grill
haft over the tinder with switch:
Do we dare to eat a peach?
the twig ill
with blossom rot
iv. The manager chuckles at my imagination
promises the pomegranates will soon be in
because I often complain of the substandard produce
and the feeling of a bug in my hair
the peach's pale meat of dishwater smacks
and the pit splits long its hemisphere
laughs an earwig out across the counter.
(My dad thanks you for taking care of me.)
I say goodbye as he scurries and nibble the core's absinthe almond
v. your dad's favourite fruit is the peach and I warm the days he grafts a batch of ice cream pail-fruit salad because it means he inhabits his mammoth peach and bobs the gilded brook to meet me and you and everyone else so I nip the tongue's pulp and titter at the josh
I don't get
vi. When you shed your scalp's winter's coat
for the first time you call
yourself a fuzzy peach
and the endearment
thrust into you
I can't stop my gaze
down at your blossoming face
but it's your fuzzy peaches I squeeze
every night the down
that I graze
even when your flue
crows the husks of bygone earwigs
who dared penetrate to the quick
of a tender
I can't always say goodbye, but I will spit them across the room and nurture your freestone spine.