Peaches

We sit across from one another
at the kitchen table
the blue checkered cloth
a field between us.
The spoon clutched in the fist
of my small hand
fishes around the bottom of the bowl
for a wedge of peach
slipping,
sliding,
until it is caught.
I kneel on the wooden chair,
then climb upon the tabletop,
bringing the gift of yellow flesh
to your slackened mouth
that opens like the baby wren,
except without syllable or sound.
Mother chastises,
I scramble down as the sweet
syrup drips from the corners of your lips,
down your white whiskered chin.
Ah, but your eyes,
your eyes are smiling.

Kristin Tenor calls De Pere, WI home and enjoys spending summers in the Door Peninsula. Besides writing poetry and prose, she’s a regular columnist for the Green Bay Press Gazette’s “Community Snapshots” feature.