Peaches Last Sunday
We stopped at one of those nearly abandoned rest-stops with baby
alligators and sweet Georgia peaches. Only 99 cents for one freshly
picked. We bought two. The first tender bite of fur tickles my tongue
and juice drips down my chest. I turn the peach clockwise after each
swallow to find the next fresh spot. Now my hands are wet, face
sticky–I made it to the pit. My teeth grip the spiny, hard shell, sucking
it clean. I smile to show you the brown seed between my teeth. You
laugh, take the last two bites, then mimic me. The worker in his
see-through tee pours a basket of peaches into the wooden bin. You
wipe my body, but my skin is still sticky; if I lick it, I may still taste
the stickiness that binds us. Let’s find one to take home, and maybe
another one, or maybe the entire basket of peaches. We will never find
this place again.
Savannah Burke is a poet and student at Florida State University studying English and Theatre. Her work explores memory, Florida landscapes, and the emotional contradictions embedded in ordinary life. She is the recipient of the John McKay Shaw Academy of American Poets Award and the Steven D. Schloff Undergraduate Creative Writing Award for Poetry. She is currently completing an Honours Thesis poetry collection. Connect with her over on Instagram.