Undressing the Peach
It's around a hundred outside
as I sit in the cool lunchroom and
undress the peach on a paper plate.
I peel away the ripe vermillion-magenta skin,
ease it from the succulent flesh,
slicing with clear plastic knife into
the luscious meat and recall how
Mother so enjoyed peach season --
now near a year since her passing.
My fingers are sticky with juice,
the sweet flesh stained blood-pink
and bitter closest to the pit.
Christopher T. George
* Edited to make it "closest to the pit" instead of "closest to the hard pit."