POETRY: PEACH – Robert Beveridge


I can smell the scent
you left in the room
these hours later, faint
in the air, stronger
on a discarded bra,
your T-shirt, the pillow.
It is the freckled copper
of your skin, pale ripe
sweetness of lip and tongue,
the flesh full to bursting
with juice, so ready
the touch of a tongue
would cause it to ooze
its sticky sweetness.
Here in this bed I wait
for you to come home,
dream of peaches.

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