Dianne Honan, Brenau University, Georgia, United States

The kitchen glows.

I lean gently

against the stone counter,

wincing as my thigh grazes

the cabinet door.

The peach in my hand

is heavy.

I roll my fingers around

its flesh,

and gaze out the window.

Finches chirp outside;

the trees sway with the tune

and the mother bird feeds her chick –

open-mouthed –waiting

for the broken worm.

I wait too,

for the sound of your boots.

Your silhouette moves

through the doorway

and your hands cover my bare shoulders.

Fingertips tracing the length of my arms,

you find the fruit in my hand.

Squeezing too hard,

you bruise that too.