She isn’t ready to process global-sized grief, the weight
of the dead, dying, and soon-to-be-dead
bodies chestcrushing her sleep.
She eats peaches in the dark before the fruit spoils,
the pit – a tongued texture against silence.
The silver sink glistens
with juice dripping from her chin; liquid lit
only by the light of the open fridge.
She is never tired and always awake,
never hungry but always hungry. The body
is a wrestled, winged thing
nestled in its own volcanic balances. Are others awake
with her? Another woman eating her own too-soon-sour fruit,
a man at a green light still on the brake,
a child upstairs waiting for his mother’s shadow,
but that shadow
creeps from a tubed throat, slips like black silk
until she evaporates and joins the others,
another part of a temporary sky – that black blanket over us all.
Sweet-fleshed peaches bitten down,
and the pits licked clean.
Maggie Wolff is a queer writer. Her work appears or is forthcoming in Black Fox Literary Magazine, The Lascaux Review, Saw Palm, and Qu Literary Magazine. She is working on her first poetry collection, which follows three generations of women as they navigate depression, addiction, and suicide. She is a poetry candidate in the MFA creative writing program at the University of Central Florida.