Honesty (13 September 2018)
I’m not good at this.
Starting again at the skin, tracing
the fault lines, the imperfect seams,
feeling the weight in my hand.
Maybe I’m just out of practice.
I’m pressing my fingers against
the cottoned down near the neck,
the blushing bloom of summer
the sweet sweating spine
searching for the smell I’m supposed to know,
looking for the ripeness yielding
the gentle give that indicates tenderness
of flesh, working my way in.
My nights are hazed with wildfire smoke
fever-formed, following soft the sun
I never knew you, I realize now,
I turned away from you,
though I have been writing you these letters
I brushed past your bruising, the places that gave
way for me.
Your name keeps me company
as I move through the morning.
Only the silence intrudes against my murmuring,
yielding to the splintering crack
of pit against the knife
Remember, I’m not good at this.
I cut too close to the core.
a slick of peach on the board.