My Mother is Unripened Peaches
My mother is unripened peaches. The peaches that make up her face are peeled, her eyes are two pits, her mouth the space where the pit used to be. She does not move well, as the hard peach-flesh on her peach-joints does not so much bend or break as it tears, thread by thread, like the run in my favorite panty hose. I must be careful when I hug her; she bruises far too easily.
We know she will ripen eventually. Already there are signs–sometimes she kisses my forehead with her peach-lips and a droplet of sticky peach-blood runs down my cheek. Sometimes I hold her hand and notice that I can almost poke my finger from one side to the other. It’s the moment I both welcome and fear: she will become sweet and pliant and I do not know that I will restrain myself from squeezing her until she’s nothing but pulp and juice. I do not know that I want to.
Kelsey Fuson is an amateur poet and lover of words. She hopes to change more and more every day.