Where the Skin Breaks
Instead of church, I touch a peach, rounding my hand over the mound— touching it fully with hand and mind the way a priest beholds a Host. Running one finger along the seam, I let go, lean back, just look at it: the ripe pink blush, the delicate fur, the curve like the curve of the Earth. Closing my eyes, I fill my nose with scent so generous it moves my toes and makes my eyebrows rise. This, too, I believe, is the body of Christ when I taste the juice where the skin breaks, this sweetness like a faceful of...
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