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 light.