Diane Wakoski





Peaches

Soft baskets full of their yielding flesh
ripening at once
overwhelmingly
the sugar bleeding from spots where the skin
slides away.
This mid-summer luxuriance
falling somewhere
in muffled thuds from the trees,
the small scimitar-shaped leaves cling to a few stems
like green mustaches.

Somewhere in California
my blood line goes on,
making me unnecessary.
I’m just another soft peach
which should be quickly preserved
or eaten
in the cool morning,
the sanguine juice
making each finger
momentarily fragrant.

        My silence means
nothing
or so many things
one cannot take it
                                      personally.