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Curvature of a Peach This work is considered exceptional by our editorial staff.

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the peach settled in my palm
grass nipped my ankles, pink socks pulled down
I rolled the peach, gently, between my hands
a sleeping baby, swaddled in an orange blanket.
its siblings scattered, plunked softly down
nestled in the green

not far below me I heard
the vroom tuck tuck of Mrs. Wallace’s truck
as it pulled into her driveway.

sitting on the hill, above the picket fence
I could see her slide thump out of the truck.
she stood, (beat), went:
twisting in her yellow blouse,
the fabric grimacing against her,
its taut lines like downturned mouths
as she groped at her pockets.

the peach sat heavy in my hand.
faithful, probably pipe dreaming of
light blue flowers, classical music,
having its guts baked into a pie,
(the kind of stuff a peach would like)

and on went Mrs. Wallace,
puttering up her driveway
found keys in hand,
her head swaying sideways with the breeze,
looks up sees me,
acknowledges with a puckered lip—
then continues.

her yellow blouse is creased and sour.
the peach, it exhales softly, whispers
do it

I make my grip firmer,
the peach wants this too.
I wind up and throw,
the wind gusts away from the hill,
joins my side.
the peach flies in an arc
its curvature lets it glide above the fence and
hit Mrs. Wallace—
right on the butt.
(flawless aim, stunning form, strong toss)

the grass kisses my ankles goodbye
as I stand and sprint away,
careful to jump over fallen peaches

the perfect pitch.
I guess I’m the best pitcher in town.
well,
peacher




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