Sonja Yelich

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.

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