Peach Pit

How do I begin
To describe what color you are
When your name is a color too?
A flavor worth describing,
You replace the words on the tip
Of my tongue.
Teeth eviscerate forgiving flesh.
You bring out the summer wild in me.
Sticking my fingers together, chlorine washes your juice
From my chin.
A dry heat smokes my belly,
Evaporating the nectar from my wrists.
Sugary residue takes up residence
On my neck, and I am stuck
With your scent
Plastered to my cheeks.
You won’t go away.
Plucked from your orchard home,
I suck your essence from within
To get to the good stuff,
Pulpy guts and fuzzy skin,
More pink than orange, like a sunset,
More tomorrow than today,
Like a Polaroid,
Shaken not stirred,
Like Sex on the Beach.
The pit in my stomach hardens.
It’s too hot in July,
And I can’t swallow anymore.
How do I begin
To describe your sweetness
When it is nothing like me?
People love you,
Flocking to flea markets,
Skinning their knees and
Combing the groves to bring
Home a piece of you.
Some peaches are more firm,
Less tender. They don’t bruise
Easily, but they listen real good, and
They hear when you say fruit
Isn’t really your thing. They listen
And smile. They cringe
When the lock clicks behind you.
They blink and feel
The silence settle around them
When you don’t come back.
My mom always told me
To settle down,
But she’s gone now, and
I can’t ask her what to do
With what’s left of you.

 

Soft Yawns

I yawn when I am tired,
but it’s not loud.

It’s a soft sound. I don’t think that things
Have to be loud to be important.

I yawn because I didn’t get enough sleep last night.
I wanted to. I just didn’t.

Same as the night before.
And maybe the one before that too.

I don’t remember. I think
A brain needs sleep to do that.

The streetlight outside my window is too bright,
Keeps me up.

And the neighbor next door
Watches too many movies.

My dad yawns when I tell stories.
He says I talk in circles like a car,

Doing donuts in an abandoned lot,
Loud.

My sister yawns when she reads.
She says books are dusty.

I disagree. I love words and spines,
How they crack when pried open.

Sure, they’re aged, even though I’m not
Old.

Old and loud are two things I am not.

Does that mean I’m not important?

Maybe I should yell and age all at once.
Maybe that’s the answer I don’t have.

 

Lost in October

Dirt crunches against quickened rubber
The harrowing banter of wind and fractured bark
The echo of a noise I don’t remember making
Bounces from limb to judgmental limb
Why are you lost?

Dead end trails stacked deep like Jenga blocks
Tall, wide, a vast ocean of pitiful possibilities
My hammering heart and pulsing veins
Distract from my purpose
Of getting home

Rain bites through slick sleeves, pounding
Pattering the ground, plastering mire on dank denim
Bitter air blisters through burnt lungs
Raw tears scrape down haggard cheeks and fall
To the ground whipping by as my feet carry me deeper

In a juniper army
I am but a yellow-sweatered civilian
An ethereal mist settles alongside footprints in the mud
Lost inside an unforgiving October wood
Cracked hands, empty and longing for home