Skin

What would this peach say
if it had breath
to share its bumps
and soft spots
as I bite it’s
skin,
ripened by the days
it’s taken to get
here to my
hand from the
hand that plucked
it from a tree;
the hand
that holds another
hand, smooths
a forehead and tucks
a chin beneath
flaxen sheets and
a thin, worn coverlet;
the hands
that pray each night
for enough
hours to work,
enough
sun to warm
the earth, enough
rain to fill
the dryness, to grow
this small offering
which I now
hold.

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