Georgia Peach

Round and palm-perfect
(A baseball or a baby's knee),
With a musky, sharp scent
That dives into the base-brain;
Soft and innocently fuzzed,
With a thick skin that protects nothing inside,
Giving for a moment before it is pierced;
An acid sweetness below the surface
In strings that cling to the teeth;
Juice that runs down the chin,
Collecting, red-tinged, in the palm
Stickily- a thin yellow blood;
All wrapped 'round the red-etched heart,
Bitter and rough to the tongue;
Also bitter are the bruises,
Discolored in the too-soft flesh
That insulates the core;
At last, a lingering hint of arsenic,
Long after the sweetness has washed away.

--Megan Morris, meikundayo@yahoo.com