Standing Up

I didn't want to hear the ceramic clink

of a plate hitting the table.

The kitchen is too quiet for a chair to scrape,

so I stand here, staring at the drain.

The peach is too ripe for its own good.

When I bite, the skin gives way like paper,

and the juice runs hot down my arm

toward the elbow I'm leaning on.

I watch the pit drop into the disposal,

heavy and wet,

and let the cold water rinse the sugar

off the stainless steel.