peach tree


the first time i had you
over, we ate peaches for dessert. the pits
rolled into the sink and down the drain,
knocking together like drunk geese
failing to fly in formation.

the first time i kissed
you good morning, i found green leaves
in the sink when i made breakfast, roots
buried somewhere in the plumbing.
the sapling was easy to water. it thrived.

in the summer we picked peaches,
two by two. at christmastime we hung
bells on its limbs and put gifts
in the dishrack, between the plates.
in the spring, when you left me,
i pulled off every green leaf,
one by one, like the petals of a daisy.


(july 2005)