by Katrina Goussev
Dappled on the flesh-soft,
fragrant ground lie
all the rancid rotting peaches
of the summer’s frivolous refusal,
their ripe-splitting skin
wasted on bristling fruit-flies,
twitching like black magnets
as they gorge on the wounded.
Spavined fingers
Hold aloft that silver net,
And in their frigid-soft distance,
Hungry: a spider
Plump and poised.