Prayer, Peach

Gospel. I remember my grandmother shucking corn. Warm, sun-drenched days. Her hands were sure, smooth as a symphony. She could have done it in her sleep.

I learn to husk fear. White cop pulls me over. I learn to husk fear. Like corn. Pull off the big outer leaves. Get to the kernel of the thing. Make sure to remove even the thin silk that sticks around. Painstaking. Persistent. Keep going until all the threads are gone & I am left with my own narrative. Clean. True as sweet corn.

The big tree at the end of my grandmother’s driveway was struck by lightning. Years ago. Split in two. It kept on going, in spite of. I keep on going. Learn.

Prayer is a weight in my hands. A wait. Like a peach. Round. Round and around a pit of empty chairs, closed doors, tall shadows, telling, so long, so long, I think, they can’t belong to me & yet, here they are, colonial darkness shackling my every step. A wait, yearned sweetness, like the first bite of a perfectly ripe peach. Something special stone fruit gives. A filling taste I sink my teeth into, juice running down my chin. The gift of the sun drenched peach lifts me, makes me feel. Home. Prayer.