Peach Pit

Author
 Grace Copeland-Tucker

Let me drape myself
in the softened crest
of your Cupid’s bow,
there where the sweat
glistens and
dips over the trench
of your top lip;
dripping like a peach
sprayed with water
at the Sunday market
where we could stroll
contentedly,
without a care.
Held in its curves,
suspended
on a hot summers’ day,
sprawled upon
crunching grass,
whose dew long gone;
the freshness of morning
now lost to the rhythm
of the midday sun
and his breathless air.
Give me water,
but not the sweltering rain.
Let me swim,
be washed away
in the juice of the
nectarine whose
skin you just
bit through –
it collects
in the hillocks
of your gums,
top lip,
dribbles
down
your
chin
as you snigger
and slurp.
I listen,
laying on the
crisp grass,
tickled by
the ants that bridge
my ankles,
wrists,
breasts,
tug at the
upright hairs
of my skin.
Meanwhile,
head tilted upward,
looking at the
huge nothing
above me,
the lead of the air
pushing our chests
further down
into the ground
to be swallowed,
ingested,
transformed
by the heat of the Earth.
          -       peach pit