From the Fishouse

in one cut, this peach will give up its blood red center to me
spiked underneath the pit in fleshy tendrils that dimple

its solid center, the hard constant to its being.
it will bleed an open sea for me, fuse sky and cloud,
torch the corners of the morning with its sweet fire,

like you, ticking out the minutes with your voice
strumming the low octave that comes just before

growl, just before hum and the jagged trickle
of a laugh dislodged and set free from brief capture,

like a perch unhooked, its own rippled fire, orange stripes
over scales, over gills which give up their blood red center

unwillingly, gape against the hard constant to its being and not
being. the heave up and back against air suffocates the mute message--
want, want, want, in each attempted and failed breath. i hear

you call my name sometimes and think you are mine. i linger
with my knife poised, edged at the skin, and wait for it to give.