The Nectarine

Are the day's edges golden
curving in to red
at the centre?

On this pressingly hot day I amble
down the long city block trailing my cart for
oranges, bananas, strawberries, apples,
green beans, cauliflower, broccoli, onions, mushrooms, carrots;
without a penknife, I pass the mangos, squeezing
the nectarines, red
almost brownish, brushed with bruised
colour like a Cezanne painted
from the inside out, the pulp held
intact with a peel
of sunset hues, outlined with dark scent.
Oh, promises, but I expect a flavourless,
crunchy thing like an apple, like all the other
nectarines the past few years.

Starting back, dragging the cart, I stop under
the shade of a maple, slip my hand
into the cart and pull out
the nectarine,
never mind if it isn't washed,
rubbing it on my blue-hued sarong,
I bite.

Honeyed.
Drippingly honeyed. Juicy and rich,
the colour of a ripened sun sinking on the horizon,
massaging my tongue with ecstasies, covering
my nose, cheeks, chin with a delicate
layer of nectarine syrup
that I wipe on my hands and both arms
until I am a sticky, scented fruit flower for
bees. Eating
such a ripe
and succulent nectarine
in public is practically pornographic, so
flagrantly sensuous and delicious.

When you thought you were
going to satisfy your craving
with an unripe pretense
of soft flesh,
a rich medley
of juices
burst
into
your
hot
mouth.

And then you just wanted to drop
your cart and run back
to the little Chinese grocer's
and buy the whole bushel.

Instead you went
to the supermarket
and bought milk and yogurt and bottled water.

But you had your moment.

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Note: This is an edit of an earlier posting.

tecnorati tags: poetry, nectarines, Cezanne, fruit.