He said it was the size
of a peach, and I wondered
if he’d known peaches
like I used to.
Odd fuzzy fruit that turned
our backyard into a sticky
sweet summer carpet.
We had to sweep it away
every other day or someone
would slip and have a fall.
Fruit that fell without succor
in short staccato thuds into
our small hands, and we’d run
with them to the kitchen to
fill cane baskets in giant heaps.
It would creep into everything—
lying quietly at the bottom
of a tart or between the folds
of a grilled fish for a sneaky
ambush on the tongue.
He said the peach needs
to go—summer has past
and the rot of fruit has
spread to the bones.
•••
*First published in nth position (July 2010 issue)•••
Trisha Bora is an editor and writer who has been away from her hometown—Assam—for many years now and currently lives in Delhi. Her works have been published at Asia Writes, Nether Magazine, Ultra Violet, Out of Print, nth position, Green Light Dhaba among others.
tongues of the ocean 