Post-Harvest

The skin of the peach tugs
                          at the blade, contorting (my knife
             dipping into

             its flesh) before breaking,
                         and bleeding
juice into my palm. To stem

             the nectar: devour. My mother
                                       and grandfather cut
their peaches too; she learned to divide

            meaty wedges for hungry
                                     mouths from him.
                         The peach stabs

                                     down my throat, to
                         my empty center,
             and fills.

Bazil Taylor

Bazil is a nonbinary writer who grew up on a vineyard in Hereford, Maryland. They are an undergraduate student at Salisbury University majoring in English with a concentration in Linguistics and minoring in both Creative Writing and French. In their work, Bazil likes to explore the concepts of family and fruit. This is their first ever publication.