I imagine even peaches

have bad days,

their fuzzy bodies plucked

before their prime

and left to rot on a kitchen tray,

their pudgy meat

soft to the touch-tattoo

of my finger checking

for a pulse—nothing.

Tia Marisol spends her days

at the stove stirring

chicken broth into a copper pot;

a flowered apron hugs her waist.

There is no more talk about

a lover coming to take her north.

These days she keeps to herself,

a seed inside a green-peach shell,

hard, bitter and tart.