Still Life

Peach
heavy on my palm.
Its hard-knot,
rattling heart muffled
by flesh I want to pierce.

Its skin
soft as felt, smooth as
unshaven down
on bare arms, dust on
butterfly wings.

Its in-between colour –
less than orange
not quite pink,
ambiguous
like brown.

Apples, pears and plums
are cool against the
cheek, but a peach

is warm.

***

Sunflowers

Their brown hearts shrivel
easily. They seethe in their skins
with the patience of

stalkers. In Van Gogh’s paintings,
they wilted in the heat of his
brilliant chrome

but they were indoors, you understand.
Try leaving them in a field. They
will grow like an army. Their

upturned faces will teach you
devotion and their fierce,
absurd longing

for a distant star
will demonstrate the joy
in things unrequited.

*Originally published in the anthology Mosaic.

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This entry was posted on Friday, November 14th, 2008 at 9:18 AMand is filed under Poetry. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.

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