The Accident

I felt the sun setting
on our backs,
sucking peach pits-
remnants of July
on our tongues,
cracking against our
crooked teeth.


The rough porch boards
are painted with yellows
and blazing pinks,
my thighs sticking
to them with the
evening's sweet 
dew lying
itself on the lawn.


You are waiting for the
stars to come out
and dance for you,
because these are the days
we're crying the most.
Walking the limping orchard
rows- watering them
with our own sort
of dew,
dewy-eyed in the mornings,
evenings, mostly.


After our peaches,
and before our
good-byes.


I feel my skin tearing
away from me
as I shift on the porch,
my bones will come through,
like broken arms
do sometimes.
Like in car accidents,


when the bones all fall
apart, out of place
with glass in your hair,
and quick burns 
across the body,
its pale facade,
meant for painting.


Your arm comes
to meet my shoulder
and the tears come
as scheduled,
the bent metal
shapes still 
lurking in the driveway.


The twilight 
still echoing
the sounds,
not birds-
the sound of breaking
and crashing
and letting go.