canned  fruit

I.
in 3rd grade mom would pack me small cans
of fruit in my lunch. a kiddie pool of syrup.
my favorite were the peaches because i didn't
believe that they were peaches-- the texture
so changed by the walls of their metal cocoon.
i was careful not to cut my tongue as i licked
the rim & drank the last drops of nectar-water,
imagining myself as a humming bird or another 
tiny fast-hearted animal. these hearts appeared 
in the fruit cocktails as halves of cherries,
which are the best part of any fruit cocktail.
i wanted just a can of wild red cherries,
wonderfully un-naturally red. a stray grape 
in the mix always resembled an eye-ball;
a green sack of loose skin & jelly insides,
i blinked as it burst sweet between my teeth.
II.
i wade, at first, with pool floaties into 
the metal can, bobbing between chunks 
of peaches, grabbing on to one to bite 
& they seal me inside-- the floaties pop.
a dark metallic world where the fruit pieces
can talk to each other & trade secrets
about their bodies. i become a water-logged
hummingbird, furiously pulsing my wings.
i learn to breathe sugar &, like the peaches,
my texture becomes smoother & more mythical.
my eyes are green grapes & with them i can 
see through the can when i want to. i see
the peanut butter sandwich & the apple 
inside the lunch box. i see a girl's pink
fingers as she reaches in. before she opens
the can i work fast to cut my heart
in half several times-- it helps with
the nervousness, in comes the light.