the peaches were heavy enough
to crush the kitchen table--

do you remember the year
we couldn't stop picking peaches--
our cheeks grew fuzzy &
our skin blushed orange &
yellow & we laid our
bodies on the kitchen table--
the entire surface was covered
& we took pictures 
like poachers & elephant tusks--
the table's legs snapped
beneath 
us & we fell into the kitchen floor--
red-speckled & harboring 
the skeletons
of arsenic mice-- the glue traps
pulled the peach fuzz
from our faces-- 
i split peaches in half with you--
we were the bond fire babies
who wrapped our feet
in tin-foil for the
forth of july-- you
waited
to peel off the skin
so you could hold me from 
the pit-- 
i have known many boys
who like peaches--
especially you who
plucked me
sour from
the tree in your garden--
premature flesh 
like an apple-- crunch--
don't wait for me to ripen
or i'll bring 
down the whole kitchen table
again-- you kept
my peach pits in your pockets
so when i left you could
grown my again
in the backyard under the
rotted out elm trees where the soil 
is full of grubs & worms--
love a girl in halves
like they taught you--
a pocket knife in hand--
we sliced them up-- the table
of peaches & my father couldn't 
stop picking by the basket-full
-- bag after
bag in the freezer--
we'll make pie-- we'll make
muffins-- we'll make jam--
we'll make peach butter
my mother chanted
with each slice of
ripe fruit-- the nectar running
between our fingers--
& the table broke in half
so we sat on the floor
& sliced from down there--
there was no where left to
store them but they just kept coming--
at your glass dining room
table i eat peaches by
the fistful & i swallow
the pits in the hopes
of growing myself
a tree from the center of
my stomach-- feel the branches
break through my
veins-- let roots attached me
to the earth by the bottoms
of my feet-- 
i grow my own peaches now--
you still collect my pits
as if you could reanimate
the type of unripened
peach-skin-faced love
we picked each other for--
next time don't mistake me 
for a kitchen table
made of glass-- i'm not
here to hold everything you
want-- i'm turning
my body golden brown-- freezing
myself in ziplock bags
& boiling in the pot
on the stove--
our mothers know how to make jam--
you can keep the pits--
my mother & i rebuilt the
table & we never picked peaches
like that again--
we learned our lesson about
the thrill of
abundance & these bodies
so easily bruised-- by a fall
oh boys who tried to re-grow
me-- i am blushy-- i am orange-skin
i am a mouth full of sun
& the snapped legs of the kitchen
table-- eat me on the floor--