(Content warning for reader: relationship abuse)
Poetry is biting into a raw peach.
Sometimes, it’s over sweet and gooey,
So ripe and pretty and perfumed
That it’s rotted from the inside out.
I throw it away.
Sometimes, it’s tough, gritty.
Under ripe and impatient.
It slides pulpally across your tongue,
Strong, like a torn ligament.
Spit it out, quick!
Sometimes, it’s been grilled,
But then it’s not really raw, now is it?
I call that cheating.
Other times, it’s sliced up in a can,
Dripping with juices made to change its nature.
Better, I think, to buy them fresh.
Sometimes, the outside is perfect,
Pristine and orange and round,
Not a bump or blemish to be found,
But then you find out the farmer beats his wife.
Maybe not, after all.
Sometimes though, sometimes, though,
It really is what you wanted.
A peach, not too sweet, not too young,
Not grilled, or canned, or unethically grown.
Sometimes a peach is a peach;
Which is when it tastes best.
Aidan Trulove is a writer from Austin, Texas. She enjoys experimenting with poetry and prose and has a deep interest in different types of mythology.