alex miller, jr.
A quiet morning chopping peaches.
The knife falls heavy with the brown magnolia leaves.
Almost maddeningly she hums and whispers hymns,
while juice golden as coastal sunlight puddles on the board
like drainage from its crumpled neck
when my uncle culled a pig for eating.
This is my story, this is my song.
Something in its eyes like understanding.
Were the whole realm of nature mine,
but of course it is: Her sundress with its peach stain
and plunging back, though the truth is hidden more deeply,
in routine and silence. For a while, the peaches thought
the point was to hang ripe alone in the orchard. But there is also
the human mouth and tongue, a devouring, companionable redness.