The Peaches

I choose these two, bruised—
Maybe too ripe to take, fondling
Them as I toss them each
Into my cart, the smaller
With its stem somewhat
Intact—because they remind me
Of the girls who won’t be girls
Much longer, both sealed
And secured like a monarch’s
Treasure in a basement below
The basement of the house
I inherited. I’ve worked hard and want
To bring them something sweet
So they know I’ve missed them
More than anyone else. But first,
I weigh the peaches, pay
For them, make the short drive
To my childhood
Home of latches, mazes,
And little locked doors. Every key
Mine now, though I’ve hidden a few
From myself. I pride myself
On my gifts. I can fashion for you
A place to play, and when you think
It’s dark there, I hand you
Fruit like two swollen bulbs
Of light you can hold onto,
Watch your eyes brighten as you eat.