ETTARD

The sun ripens
like a peach toward night;
wet-fleshed and red
its warm juice squelches
between my knuckles—
I had anticipated rapture
as my teeth clave
to the bony pit but I think
I’d rather have watched
its bright sickle
covey to the red breast
of dusk—
now its savaged strips
of rag-flesh nuzzle red
against my palm like
the lingering press of fingers
on your hip—
I never open a package
the way it’s meant.