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:

I am the peach, with poison seed,

with icecream dreams, remembered sweets,

I’m death to every mouth I feed.