showered through the sky as I
jolted the branches like Ma did.
She told me the tiny shards would
slice my skin, and that the juice of
the citrus diamonds would seep
one drop at a time
into my veins and arteries.
To my four-year-old self,
that sounded pleasantly delicious and
soon the glass peaches showered
through the sky as I jolted the branches
like Ma did.
The blood tasted sweet
like the roasted peach cobbler
from the West Virginian fruit stand
that we used to buy cherries from
to glue to the wreath every Christmas.
I hardly noticed that the bloody, broken
glass of the peaches-no-more dashed
farther out of reality than ever before.