Peach Pits

I can't seem to do any "normal" blogging, so it's back to poetry. Which is good, I think. I probably rant too much anyway.

This poem probably is a venting of my experience with violence in relationships recently (not necessarily physical). Somehow it came out in the context of familial relations. I didn't have the particular experiences depicted in the poem, but a lot of my poetry isn't "confessional" in that sense anyway. A lot of my poetry is as much fiction as it is poetry.

Peach pits

Father in cloud of aftershave
counted time
and hid his razor blades in his mouth

Mother grabbed the other side of Oklahoma
and halved all the eggs yoke-running,
leaving the uncooked batter in the oven

They shipped us to our Grandma
who would buy us cantaloupe,
cut it up and give us the seeds,
with Grandpa watching from the back,
tonguing his pipe and smoking her leaves

You tell me you remember after dinner
clanging silverware on empty plates
and eating whatever was left still sitting at the table

And when we both go to our patches,
we can only pick to give each other
Peach pits
which we watch each other barely chew
and swallow.

© 2006 K. M. Camper