peach pit

I.
bold bruised & soft sunburns: the peaches
in the ceramic bowl on the dining room table
are ready. no one is home, just the faucet
dripping ghost. overripe, mouths full of orange sugar.
i'm standing over the sink full of dishes,
silver diet coke cans glaring beneath
the crusted cast iron pan. the juice leaks
down as i take the first bite, the orchard 
up the road where all the trees are named
after dead family members & the kitchen floor
sprouts wild grass. even the pit is loose,
breaking off in shards. i pick them from
my lips, the fingernails of long dead trees.
inside the pit, a white seed like an ear lobe,
a sprig of green, an ankle, an eye brow.

II.
guilt is a thing of growing, we must not
waste food. we must never waste food. the peaches
in my fridge are hard & bitter. i hold one 
by the dim corner light in my kitchen, barefoot.
night making insect of the porch. the web worm
moth on the door with her orange & white
wings folded back. if i hold on long enough
the peach will come back to life. i will
put the fruit back inside the white drawer
& in the morning when i open the fridge 
there will be a young tree-- my own earlobes 
falling off to return to the life of seeds. 
the tree will need to be taken care of as
one would a child. picked up, carried on the hip,
sat on the sofa in the living room. let me hold you
until the peach pit in your chest reawakens--
until the web worm moth goes home. 
until everything is ripe & mush.