Mrs. T. Prepares Fruit

Here are three peaches
In a row, three wombs
Softly handled, tickled under
Running water.

Here are three bone porcelain
Dishes, three tiny silver spoons,
Three whispered names,
Three chances.

I remember Kristeva:
Now there’s a woman who can
Appreciate a sweet peach and a cold
Glass of milk.

I cast the stones like die or
Scrying bones. Not headed
For the compost heap, not
If I can help it.

The impertinence of peaches,
Living on after being eaten clean.
There will be strawberries
Tomorrow, perhaps.

Published in QLRS