Peaches and Ginger


They stand in pairs

on the other side of the

keys and cash, asking if

we charge for bags or

do we offer a senior discount on Sunday?


Him and her (but sometimes

her and her or him and him)

One drove and one spoke.

One speaks and one hands

me twenties in a calloused grip

or credit wrapped in tissue paper fingers.


He could reach the top

shelf where there are mason jars

filled with amber peach jam.

She crushed the peaches

in her deft palms

and boiled them to

tangy sticky sweetness.


The mush was spooned

into the open mouths;

and his thumb swept

the corner of her lips.


A thousand tongue touches

and enveloping embraces

and I love yous whispered

into the blanketing night.


It all led them here—

jangling house keys and a

Subaru emblem passed

among one another—

to the little grocery store

where she will buy peaches

and he will let ginger melt

under his tongue.