It is the marriage
of peach and plum, the crunch
of tart and sweet, nectar
of fruit without the fuzz
in your teeth. It sings
summer in the mouth.
It is the August sun, with its heavy
breath, that doesn’t want to go in
for the night, that sinks reluctantly
behind the dark hills, staining
the western sky tangerine, vermilion.
But still, the heat remains.
Heft it in your hand; the firm flesh
settles in. There is no word in English
that rhymes with orange. There is no
other body that calls to mine like yours,
saying strip me, eat me, fill
my mouth with juice.