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Terzanelle: Stone
I am the peach, with poison seed.
You stroke my skin and think me warm --
I’m death to every mouth I feed.
Beneath the surface, insects swarm
and seek to break this fleshy cage;
you stroke my skin and think me warm
but what you feel is buzzing rage
that stings me as I cry, I cry
and seek to break this fleshy cage.
Inside the seed is dry, so dry,
and cold enough to numb the thought
that stings me as I cry. I cry
for summers buried, children caught
with icecream dreams, remembered sweets
and cold -- enough to numb the thought.
A last embrace for he who eats: