peaches bloom even in the dark, as wet as a girl

comes wave after wave after wave the derivative & harvest, the myrtle 

tops of sandstorms & milk glasses, apple, horse & song, list, listen, light 

leaks from the spaces between the bubbles — call it foam — tender pocket 

of yes yes yes call it flesh — eat tonight & you’ll still have to eat tomorrow, 

eat tonight & it still won’t be over — eat tonight: peaches bloom even 

in the dark, as wet as a girl — hands & feet, horse & song, the same 

hole bandaged over & over, not a wound but its absence — a sum of 

histories — the nights colliding like marbles, & if there is an end then 

it’s too dark to see, if there is an end then it’s too bright to see, hands 

folding, unfolding, & you, Scheherazade!, milky goddess of recursion, 

best DJ in the city, you spin records, spin heads, cross legs & cross 

deserts, & always pause just moments before he 

 

[Lucy Wainger, 'Scheherazade {after Richard Siken}', from Poetry (December 2016)]