Grace Giska

I held a peach pit in the palm of my hand 

rough on the edges, soft in the center 

it had started to rot 

smelled like dirt and 

fungi tucked under my chin 

but still, I held the peach pit close as 

I laid cuddled in a hammock 

swaying back and forth 

  

I listened to the wind 

race past weeping willows 

alive with tears of green 

bright, jaded fern plants and 

giggling water littles 

sounded like children 

running back and forth 

  

I flipped onto my other side 

my partner moved with me 

sliding his arm under my neck 

weaving his fingers in mine 

the peach pit, I clutched close to my chest 

didn’t matter to him 

running my fingers over its shriveled corpse 

back and forth 

  

In that moment of quiet 

hushed breathing, the sway of the hammock 

my hair is caught under his shoulder 

he leans in to plant a kiss on my neck 

that fixes the problem 

we go back to breathing 

back and forth. 

  

At that moment, I knew a tree would never grow here. 

But what a wonderful place to die.