for breakfast,
peach flesh
            slick and yellow—
spoken over,
butterknife dreams
            love bites across
            plump curves
never said no.

eight peaches, lucky.
pits torn up,
            gone out, rolling
heads and tails;
                        probability, ever
for breakfast,
            and prayers—
peaches, ate
            and drained. eight
in the can,
drowning in syrup brine.
                        eight accounted
for, eyelids smoothed closed,
            shrouded in last light.
            no more appetite
for the news. call it a
                        bad day.

            and prayers, sticky
            pulp    oozing
            from holes
                        in hearts.
            he used:
the canned
            peaches left behind to expire,
the girls in the back,
                        the glock,
the gild.

This is a reprint of work originally published in The Rising Phoenix Review.

Amy Liu is a high school student from Long Island, New York. Her work has been nationally recognized by the Scholastic Art & Writing Awards and the National Council of Teachers of English. Her poetry is found or forthcoming in The Rising Phoenix Review, Small Leaf Press, and more.

This entry was posted in Poetry, Reprint and tagged . Bookmark the permalink.

1 Response to eight

  1. Stan Galloway says:

    Delightful, sensual, thoughtful.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.