Peach

by William Studebaker

Everyday I shave
my beard
and dump the ashes
on the ground
where I'd be buried
if that were
the death of me.

I take off
where a woman
puts a face on.
I'm smooth and round
beneath a hand.

I press my cheek
to yours, offering
a peach—ripe
and sunshine warm,
not a box or a bushel
or enough to can,
but fresh
for your lips to pick.

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