Peaches and Blood

For breakfast, while you slept,
I ate peaches with my fingers,
perched in my underwear
in the rocking chair on the porch.

I fished the syrupy slippery wedges
one by one straight out
from the can with my fingers,

popped them into my mouth
to dribble wet down my face,
until the inevitable moment
I sliced myself on the edge,

wet fingerprint split open
welling bright and red.
What would you say

if you stirred and saw me like this:
sticky-chinned gargoyle,
stony in the sunlight,
dripping blood into the juice,

even wounded still reaching
for another sweet fruit.

— Adam Kamerer

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