two by Suzanne Cheavens

 

Freezing Peaches

 

Hands slick with peach juice I stabbed myself two times.
Wresting fruit from the stone, filling bags

that, come the dark days, will fill the house with summer.
A prize from the freezer, dated August 2019,

and needlessly, “Summer” writ in orange marker
— Because it's always good to say the word

out loud when ice fangs curl around the roof

and into my dreams 
— Because saying summer in winter is

an incantation of the finest kind.
Especially if peach cobbler is in the oven singing

memories of ripe times and bare feet and

no more ambition than to read a book

in a desultory fashion, swatting harmlessly

at flies and wondering how many gin and tonics

it will take to stop time.

The little wounds are like badges,

A stinging reminder that everything feels

good in the summer, even where I prick my skin,

To let it in.

 

 

Peaches

 

I think if I eat another peach

 

I will become one.
Fuzzy, a little soft, a little firm,
Above all, sweet.
Sweeter than I really am.
Now is my time,

But we all know how now goes.

It goes, and so will I.

It is up to me to remember

My peachiness, when winter storms howl,

And ice creeps into my veins.

That's when I must morph into

My juiciest, sweetest, summeriest self.

I am going to eat another peach,

So I will become one.