Massiel Ladrón De Guevara
I imagine even peaches
have bad days,
their fuzzy bodies plucked
before their prime
and left to rot on a kitchen tray,
their pudgy meat
soft to the touch-tattoo
of my finger checking
for a pulse—nothing.
Tia Marisol spends her days
at the stove stirring
chicken broth into a copper pot;
a flowered apron hugs her waist.
There is no more talk about
a lover coming to take her north.
These days she keeps to herself,
a seed inside a green-peach shell,
hard, bitter and tart.
fiction poetry "fact" photography