Ode to the First Peach

Only one insect has feasted here—

a clear stub of resin

plugs the scar. And the hollow

where the stem was severed

shines with juice.

The fur still silvered

like a caul. Even

in the next minute

the hairs will darken,

turn more golden in my palm.

Heavier, this flesh,

than you would imagine,

like the sudden

weight of a newborn.

Oh what a marriage

of citron and blush!

It could be a planet

reflected through a hall

of mirrors. Or

what a swan becomes

when a fairy shoots it

from the sky at dawn.

At the beginning of the world,

when the first dense pith

was ravished and the stars

were not yet lustrous

coins fallen from the

pockets of night,

who could have dreamed

this would be curried

from the chaos?

Scent of morning and sugar,

bruise and hunger.

Silent, swollen, clefted life,

remnant always remaking itself

out of that first flaming ripeness.