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but my father cut the peach with two clean strokes,
each slice falling onto the cutting board at the same moment
like four wasting moons.
THE GIRL WITH TWO SKINS
I.
On your knees between moon-green shoots,
beside a sack of seed, a silver can, a white spade,
a ball is tucked into the bustle of your skirt:
like a pearl
but not a pearl.
You pulled it up
round as a beet from between the mint and the beans
where I had sunk it in the earth,
as though I fished
for loam-finned, moss-gilled coelacanth
at the bottom of the world.
I thought it safe.
I crawl to you on belly henna-bright,
teeth out,
scratching the basil sprouts—
eyes flash phosphor. In the late light,
slant gold light,
you must see
the old tail echo
beneath my muddy dress:
two, three, nine.
I howl against the barking churchbells:
Give it back, give it back,
I need it.
II.
