Poetry: Peach

 

By Clark Kimball

 

Is a peach a poem? Of course!
But just how so?
How so because a peach is like a poem.
But how like? Like which? Which peach-poem citing?

 

The peach I hold now in my hand
or the peach still held in my poet’s heart?
(And is every poet’s peach not a heart-felt poem?)

 

You are the one. I hold you well
my dear peachy-keen girl—here,
as I have ever held you from first blush near:
good, true, beautiful; each-exciting.

 

Are you therefore not a peach because I say you are?
Or are you somehow yet like a peach without my saying so?
(Just what are you like without me anyway—just what at all?)

 

Are you therefore not a peach because I say you are?
Or are you somehow yet like a peach without my saying so?
(Just what are you like without me anyway—just what at all?)

 

Because I say:
my hand is yet somehow like the poet’s writing implement;
my tongue, a cunning multi-linguist;
and my penis, a canticle of clever verses.
(I can not imagine what I am like or unlike without you.)

 

When I am old—and I am old—
I do still dare to eat the peach. To be bold—
inviting. Of course, you are the peach: that poem!
And we the poets—each to each reciting.

 


 

For Kate O’Connor St. Valentine’s Day 2013. Clark Kimball lives with his wife Kate O’Connor in Asheville. He is a graduate of the UNCG MFA Writing Program and founding-president of P.E.N. NM.

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