The Peaches

Back from the airport, I sat in the car
eating one of the peaches he’d given me.

It was a perfect peach, and the next one
was perfect too: ripe, juicy, two peaches

that I ate without regret. Even now
I can’t forget the taste of that summer,

how I would open his letters as I
walked in a garden by the lake, reading

the words that were as close as words could come
to skin and the warm flesh that covered bone.

I considered Properzia d’Rossi
carving the crucifixion in peach stone,

how she found the broken body of love
had something poisonous at the center.

High Heels

I remember how it began:
I said my name is high heels,
nylons with a black seam.
He said I’m sharkskin,
wingtips.

All these years later
I can feel the sting of skin
under the flat garter
pressed into my thigh,
the heavy crush
of girdle under
the green sheath of silk.

There must have been pearls,
long white gloves, and
a small purse,
in which I carried
the remote chance
I would know how
to save myself.