Standing Supper

The kitchen light is buzzing, a low yellow fly,

and I’m too tired to even find a fork.

I stand over the stainless steel basin

and peel back the skin of a peach.

It’s overripe, yielding like a soft bruise,

and the first bite is a flood I wasn't ready for.

The juice maps a sticky line down my arm,

heading for the crook of the elbow.

I let it drip onto the metal,

watching the sugar run toward the drain.

Sometimes the only way to get through the heat

is to eat like an animal before the rain.