|
The Peach
He cut through suddenly. The peach bright in its meat.
The evening cool on its hinges – autumn of the trees & in the windows a brown tuft of light. A largish moth had bothered my mouth at the very moment a dry heave had left his – and I flicked at the leather of its wings. A fur thorax. A long genital. The gash made a thick path of bleeding to the linoleum floor. For a second I said suck it. And reached for a dishcloth to wrap the flesh between his index and thumb. He foamed the word Help. The pink nook of his mouth – internal & humid. The moth’s slow drawl. I am no medic and so peeped at the thrill.
|