Peaches

These peaches were not meant for me;
they were canned by a woman whose
hands dissolve into the earth.


Each morning as I reach for my 
granola, I see the peach halves floating
orangish, in  tepid juice, through clear 
Bell jars, fleshy peaches


that flake and stare, one pit in each jar.
the last of the woman
whose husband's possessions 
I packed into moving boxes.


You can take those peaches,
he said, 
the only one who eats them is 
my wife, and she' s dead.  


		I saw her, 
faded sepia, Forties photograph, 
young woman, auburn hair, 
pretty eyes, dark lips turned up.


I did not choose this food.
The peaches fill my cupboard,
eight jars of bright fruit 
floating like organs.


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