Before I knew the ways of men, I knew farmer's 
market Wednesdays, Amish women tending peppers 
and pumpkins, green-fingered zucchini. My grandmother 
reached for peaches, carted them home, placed them 
on her window. In floral housecoat, she eyed them each day,   
pressed them with her thumb for answers. When ready, 
they slipped off their coats and lay down in bowls of sugar. 

On morning news, the president fields questions with sour face. 
(In the middle of impeachment sits a peach—sweet orb 
like a woman trapped between a man's hands.) I lean 
across the kitchen table. Have you ever taken what another 
wasn’t prepared to give? I ask the president. He fidgets 
in my coffee’s steam. I flick off the TV, sweep my gaze 
outside: dark sky, curled clouds, God's closet of wigs.