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