Ode to Canned Peaches

You are not the plump center of attention.
Not an idealized cartoon rendering– pink, red, orange,

mimicking every color boasted by the sun.
You were never unbruised and are, admittedly,

no longer whole. Unlike the produce section peaches,
plucked fresh off some vine, or whatever plant orifice

it is peaches spring from– you are found in a different aisle entirely.

Already sliced, each sour spot sifted through by the time
you are placed in hand, you are no gamble.

Cooled in the ice box for an unbridled craving in the swelter
of August, a mouthful of summer to pierce the gray crush of January,

you last through each season undaunted,
a syrup guaranteed to drip down the chin.

A few twists of the wrist
away from the edge

of a clean fork, something fated
to be placed on the tongue,

reliable and ready
to whelm an ache in my jaw.

Trudy Hodnefield is a queer writer and maker of Japanese descent. Born and raised on the island of O‘ahu, she is currently completing an MA in Fashion Studies at Parsons School of Design in New York (Lenapehoking). Her other poetry and creative non-fiction have been published by Soft Quarterly, Indie Earth Publishing, the Hawai’i Review, and the BIAS Journal of Dress Practice, with forthcoming poems to be published by Eunoia Review. 

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.