The day the peach ate me
I was June, I was July
I was summer and yellow flesh.
I think he yawned afterwards
while I left the earth on my heels
above the tree I climbed as a child.
They say my father left today,
They say my mother’s old today,
There are fingerprints everywhere.
I’m not scared of the exact way
a firefly dies in a sealed jar.
When the miracle came, I wrote it down.
I still can’t remember to believe.
I step in this left weather,
losing both feet to frostbite.
He dropped the rope down my long throat
She could not climb out of my stomach.
We decided to carry our shoes,
We’d be quiet enough to run away.