September Peaches

It must be the moon—

this softening, 

bruised fruit,

canning days, freezer jam,

cinnamon scones on the cooling rack.

Perfection is not the goal.

Nothing prepared me for the loneliness

except, sometimes, squash blossoms

stuffed with nutmeg and goat cheese,

the burst of fruit flies,

the balsamic trap, the honey drizzle.

You don’t have to know everything.

I know the feel of peaches, pears,

ripe tomatoes at the market.

I know you,

watching the sun drip

toward the horizon, cold beach.

You don’t have to be good.

This is the bounty and barrenness—

the apple-sized fetus kicking its feet,

the mother leaning against the wall

with a rip in her grocery bag,

and the clock stops, as if remembering:

Be still.

Be still, little one.

Emily Bulicz-Arnelien