subtext

from troubled sleep

I wake and turn

to find solace

in the warm curve

of your skin

then rise and head down

the stairs to find

the fruit you brought

for us to eat

last night

I open a slit

beneath the soft fuzz

and pull the pliant skin

until the peeled peach

lies slick between my fingers

with my thumb tip
I slip the hard center

slowly from the ripe flesh

like a monk’s head

from under a cowl

until the juice flows

freely

across my hand

and I take that first

delicate bite