by Wilda Morris

Picking Peaches

My basket full of promise
of jam and pie,
I stood beneath laden branches
among orchard fragrance
eating a perfectly reddened peach,
plump with moist pulp.

I never guessed what teeth
would eat into my soul,
turn my face red
as the ripe fruit,
moist as its sweet juice,
salt not sugar on my cheeks.


First published in Poem