helen by Melis Gordem

a peach as sweet as me sits on top of a table;
it’s soft, plump, and its flesh bares a sunset glow.
it idles in its bowl during the pinnacle of its ripe.

chirps echo into the room; the birds’ nests reside closely to the sill.
i look outside, cupping the peach in my hands, and all i see is greenery:
freshly trimmed grass, blown out daffodils, and a withered elm tree.

“marriage is such a fickle thing,” i sigh, caressing the peach.
it consumes the fruit of the youth when disagreements turn out rotten.
i bite into the peach, saccharine juices dripping down my arm.

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