I didn’t know they’d turn out so bad,
those peaches ripening in a paper sack.
Later that week I sliced one.
Halved, it gave not a drop,
released from its twin’s grip
twisted, pulled back stone,
saw rot and mold, spongy flesh.
What was salvaged got sliced,
bagged, stored, frozen.
Our ice maker long broken,
instead of cubes I stacked
icy peach carvings in a cup,
crafted fruit-infused tap water.
Sipping hints of sweetness
I started rethinking a recipe,
without much of a pause
began casting frozen fruit
into a pitcher’s ample seat,
tossing in a liberal cup of sugar,
shots of Christian Brothers,
splashes of Triple Sec,
a new bottle of Beaujolais,
a liter of seltzer to finish,
a stir, a swig, a sample,
two tumblers and I called you
in after blistering yard work.
We drank the whole pitcher
before it came time to wash up
and cook a proper supper for us,
savored softened, booze infused
slices of wine-stained stone fruit
come miraculously back to life.
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