Cragged and brilliant green hangs
its yellowing arms as though from my neck, anchored
in my womb — I love her.
I love her so much I feel the bruise of grief for having left,
though only a few feet are between us, I love her
peach in my palm
coated in dusty vernix
the gushy amber innards she has given
my mouth, wet, as she plunges through
throat long pierced with pencils and nails,
and lands somehow down there
she loves me
from the raw pink core, believes in the weight
of my heart as she, too, has been torn, obliterated
upon some wandering tooth and in her
so velveteen song she sings
of the bitter almond seed—
pungent release from the center of her
peach, crushed
from which another
tree, like a poem, roots a certain sweet,
certain hope
in the body of me
churned into acid
and soon into blood where, somehow,
the bodies of us merge, meat of meat,
a dessert peach becomes the dream
it is no less a song in my heart
that must, believe me,
crawl into your arms,
into your crescent yellowing leaf,
place my calloused tree ring tips up on
your hardened skin,
and trace a place for my cheek
it is in your shade I hold you
as though I need to be held
as though I am a child, remembering
as though I am a mother.