Under the kitchen faucet,
my mother scrubs the fur,
pulls back the skin.
The fruit is picked before ripeness
takes its hold.
The knife my mother uses
is the knife her mother used,
and is kept sharp for me.
Meanwhile, men pass land
down to their sons.
My mother splits golden globes
into halves,
pulls away the pit,
exposes the aching venous hole.
My father sits on a tree stump,
waits for a son to be born.
I'm in overalls
and boy's shoes,
poking a stick around in dirt.
We eat peaches all year long.
In jars the fetal curve of slices
float in a clear, thick soup.
A white glob of paraffin
seals off the air.
Lara
Gularte