Ripe, striped peaches.
The first of the year.
Their seductive fragrance
escapes from my palm
and plumbs the pleasure sites
in my head.
I gingerly slice
a pristine wedge;
she raises the fruit intact
like a sacred host
and bites it whole,
the residue on her lip
yellow like the moon
in October.
You slice up your
days, your duties
your life, halving
and quartering,
quantifying your senses,
your feelings,
your hopes,
she said.
Here, just this once
take the fruit
and eat it whole;
let me watch the juice
dribble down your chin
as a fresh stream
trickles over a smooth rock
after the ice has melted.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem