organic peaches

by Rachel M.

Nothing is organic in October 2012 – least of all
the food and the
Bikram Yoga-Attending Virginia Slims Lexus Truck Main Line Moms
at all the local growers markets –
pushing, shoving, biting, scratching for all the finest un-pocked tomatoes.

Meanwhile,
only two blocks over
in any direction,
Crackheads spit and shriek
at birds and cats and each other, and
scratch out their own miserable bloodshot eyes before
dipping out against alley-side buildings.

What worries me is this gaping, fleeting, intuitive creativity
I’m incapable of honing
(or too cynical to try).
Isn’t everything I write a direct response to something
I Witness, Read, Hear, Want?
Nothing is organically derived from these
fingertips and palms.

Everything as a Response.

I hate those Main Line Bitches.

(I’m one of those Main Line Bitches
except without
the stay-at-home gig and
carbon copies of myself
trailing behind me in ribboned braided pigtails and shin guards.)

Is this what I’ve amounted to?
A Main Line Bitch
with an uppity attitude toward all the more
successful uppity bitches?
Am I just waiting for
some One or some Thing
to see It and solve It and say
No, You Are Else.

My Mother calls me
Brooding.
Maybe I am
Just Brooding.

The only difference is
I’m not scratching out anyone’s eyes
for a
perfect, unbruised peach.

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