May

painting courtesy of the MET Museum Archives

by Leah Skay

something in the air calls for soft peaches

and slow forgiveness.

the rain catches us smitten and selfish with cherries,

misting us to spare the downpour of yesterday.

I hold up two fingers and dare you

to spit the pits of sweet fruit through the goalpost

to challenge your aim, where you’re going. I

hope you miss and hit me so we’re square.

strawberry seeds fly with flesh shrapnel,

small and messy. peach pits slap my wrist,

dragged down by your gentle toss because

you can’t hurt me even when asked.

you’ve only ever been a warm spring glow

sparkling the pond alive, while I

ride icy backwinds where fruit can’t grow,

consuming, squirreling, white-knuckling

cherry pits fly true through the gap with pellet

gun precision, punching holes in unsuspecting

leaves behind my head. robins swipe whatever

fruit we have laying around for their babies

and I wipe fruit shrapnel from my lips. we’re

all alive again. bitter is for winter, a cold, sharp

survivor. but something in the air calls for

soft peaches and slow forgiveness. the pit

is primed for planting

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Leah Skay is a Delaware-born author and a recent transplant to Brooklyn,
NY. Her work can be found with 45th Parallel, The Quarter(ly), HAD, Ink in
Thirds, and more. Her work has earned multiple top prize placements and an
Editor’s Prize from Sunspot Lit for her poem, “Devotee of the Bog Witch.”
She received her B.A. in Creative Writing from Ithaca College. Check out
the full catalogue of her work at leahskay.com