It’s a simple scene. The man

and woman sit across from each other

in silence. He’s already reached for the peach,

weighed the summer soft skin in his

palm. The woman has turned her head

towards the window, exposing

that part of her neck she knows

will keep him long enough

for her to breathe. He isn’t

looking. He’s digging his finger

deep into the flesh, fishing

to find its center. She fights

the febrile urge to squirm

as he carves his fat thumb

through the core. Silent

as the scene may seem, we see her shift

focus to the sky—maybe the thunder yawns, maybe

the wind throws through the panes, maybe

she hears a sadness that sounds like her

childhood and reminds herself not to think

about flying. Finally, finds what he is

looking for. He drops the sweet pit

on his tongue and rolls it

cheek to cheek. She stifles herself

on the chair, wishing she could

ask the seed how it feels

to begin again.