It was summer and we had only just met

When a man on the street offered us

A mountain peach. It was as flat and pink

As the inside of a baby’s mouth.

Not unlike the conspicuous fruit left

On the ledge by Madonna and Child

In the painting by Squarcione. The background

Adorned with peaches. Or was it apples?

A garland of fruit tied with scarlet ribbons.

A single candle burning in the distance.

I was eating a peach when I found out

I was to become a Mother.

Dropped the wet stone from my hand,

Bent down to pick it up.

Dropped it again.