It’s later, now.
After the peaches
and the pie crust and
after Dad said
he has lymph cancer.
It’s after spending 3 hours today blanching,
peeling, slicing and spicing
peaches I bought on Tuesday
and placed in the brown paper bag,
on the Mexican tile floor.
Beneath the side board
they rested into themselves
for four days.
Until their scent
dripped thickly from the air
and sweetened us with sunset...
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Out on the edge of things-
edge of comfort, politeness, legality, acceptability, of “what we do”,
there aren’t a lot of arms
holding you.
There aren’t a lot of voices
reassuring you.
Because you’re somewhere
no one’s ever been.
You don’t know.
And you know
you don’t know.
You are leaning, balancing over the edge
toes tingling, gripping.
Hoping to feel some security
about the place that’s here.
The...
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