Poem 9

Juicy peaches, sweet

fresh, sitting in flowered bowl

ripening, waiting


The image and smell

of peaches

take me back to my seventh year

to a kitchen that was shady and cool

in the heat of a summer afternoon,

to an old home

lived in and cared for by women

who still fed the ancient stove wood

to turn out home-cooked meals.

I taste the sweet juice of a peach

as it runs down my chin

almost a half-century later

and I hear my great aunt’s laugh,

long since silenced,

as she hands me a napkin

to catch the runoff.

And I am back in her kitchen,

shady and cool

in the heat of a summer afternoon.


Eve Remillard



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