I think of my breasts swelling,
a sign of seed,
but I fear my age
like rot next to the bone
and I can't finish in time
all the peaches in the box
turning leprous with mold.
I wonder at the juice
running down my wrists,
how heaven stabs
when you are in the kitchen
on August 15,
working away at night
with sore breasts
and a sticky floor,
how a summons comes up
from the fruit,
reckless and sweet.
(c)Suzanne (Clark) Rhodes 1999
from What A Light Thing, This Stone
Sows Ear Press, Abingdon, VA
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