Winshen Liu
For you, that week, we bought peaches like eggs:
twelve in a box, more than we’d had in years:
pink-skinned, white fleshed, portrait of Yang Guifei
in the morning, supple and unblemished:
the fridge became a vault that only
the right aunt, at the right hour, could open:
she sliced a wedge into tiny dice, rolled
into your bowl, no longer ceramic:
we watched them tremble and brown on your fork,
we relearned what it meant to be eager;
the dilemma arose when four remained:
six weeks had passed and so they wrinkled:
we each touched the peaches: but no
one was hungry, not even at dinner.
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