Peaches and Poetry
A shattered stone shack,
bloodstained shoes on a rock
mark what is buried beneath -
love poems and photos of families,
a book recording the safe delivery
of plums and peaches, pages
scorched and torn from its spine.
Fruits had no time to ponder
the notion of leaving the tree
or the prospect of staying to face
the juicer and the smoking truth.
All around, trees hang shredded,
blood blending with puréed peach
on the ground, an orgy for wasps.