I have even eaten peach after peach
without hesitation or apology, and each
was a disappointment. Outwardly
they looked ideal, smooth as a pony muzzle
or pool table felt, sunset colored,
and when I held them I sensed
either their heartbeats or my own.

I overbought, too, thinking how lovely
they looked together, a troupe of California peaches
visiting Minnesota in July, the only month
they’d find palatable. I wondered what exactly
I expected of them. Flavor, I suppose.

Or I thought the stone
might offer me I can’t say what,
like tea leaves or a fortune cookie,
some hint of a changed life.
Still moist, still bearing a tassel of flesh,
the stone requests a sympathetic burial;
it believes that any amicable clay, even mine,
is suitable for resurrection.