In my field journal about rocks for my seventh grade biology teacher, I write:
You know Georgia peaches. Plump and juicy. And some
more hairy than others. Well, today, I went peach picking
with my family. We got some really nice ones. I slice open
one to find a dancing worm. My body jerked, but I managed
to not throw up. That one I tossed into my backyard. The
next one unveiled perfect glowing insides. Bright yellow
faded into pink and then a deep magenta emanating from the
ovular heart. Along the oval, sits proud and perky and dew-
glistening lips. As if, ready. As if, waiting. I press two
fingers to soothe the pit out. Back and forth, back and forth.
In rhythm, its ridges clasp to my fingers. The peach has been
undressed, all of its body ready for my mouth. This is how I
eat a peach: First, I kiss the top and bottom, thanking its seed
for its toils in the soil. Then, I lather my saliva across its
scrubby insides. Finally, my teeth penetrate into its floral
flesh. My mouth, a suction. Its juice sliding down my chin.
Karen Zheng is a first-generation, queer, Chinese-American. Her poetry has been featured in Emerson Review, Sine Theta Magazine, Honey Literary, The Wave, and elsewhere. She is a Breadloaf Writers’ Conference Contributor in 2022 and a Roots. Wounds. Words Poetry Fellow in 2023. In her free time, she hosts the Mx. Asian American podcast and Tucked in Bed podcast.
