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Poem


They would ripen all at once
under a hot sun and hang
in a sugary glut only for a day 
or two before starting to spoil. 
I had to be quick and when
the time came, 
I hurried home
from school to clamber up
the tree and seize 
the fruit. Each was a warm, 
engorged globe of flesh 
with just a hint of give 
when a finger was pressed 
into skin.
No command, 
not even from God,
could have held back a bite.

Mouthfuls of sweet peach
sent every pleasure bud
on the tongue into a spasm 
and spilt the overload 
oozing out of the corners
of stretched lips. 
Great gulps 
were hurried down the throat 
to make room for another bite. 
No savoring restraint held
me back, this was volume.
All afternoon
my face and hands 
dripped a sticky syrup,
coating my shirt.

Finally I would have my fill
and sit bloated beneath
the tree surrounded 
by peachstones some still
encased in leftovers 
of pinkish flesh. Sorry evidence
to convict. Afterwards, 
a terrible remorse always
took hold. Next day 
I thought my stomach ache
was punishment from above.
Every year of my childhood,
in the heat of late summer, 
I repeated the same sin,
suffered the same consequence,
hoped for forgiveness 
from a wrathful God.

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