Peaches for a Pie

The thin blade of my knife

slips easily into the sweet flesh

of the peaches.

My fingers and palms

are covered in the thick slickness

as the skins and pits fall into the sink

and I slice the fruit into the curve 

of the blue glass bowl.

My hips lean into the counter

to do this quiet summer chore

and I can't help the thought of your mouth

that enters the dim light of the afternoon kitchen.

What my hands could offer

that empty fasting place

with one simple gesture

like priest to believer.

And in that moment of faith

I disappear into sugar,

flour and butter I cut so small

no one will notice

the stutter in my breath

as the shadow of awakening

slips his hands

around my waist

and whispers love 

into my ear.