As I exit the world of green dinosaurs fused from abandoned rusty automobiles and steaming in the sun, a child offered me a giant peach harvested from a Palisade tree grown in the valley’s katabatic winds.
It tasted of harsh-sweet stolen pleasures, lust and greed and love and dried fruit, full of Ute tears and diverted waters, memories between prayers and laments buried deep, sprouting new on rolling plains laced with spice breezes and Buffalo.
It had evolved flesh pregnant with two hemispheres to be split midway by thumbs meant to be coated with pulp juice pooling to palm lifelines.
I knew it fed me its sweetness in cupped hands, not a gift but a sacrifice to be sniffed and tasted like an old vintage barreled decades for a loving tongue.
Its red blush collapsed into a tawny mass that matched the day’s light, remaining fuzzy flesh a gold skull— the ancient colors full of guilt and redemption and red shame and love and twilight, a thing existing slightly out of season, fully sweet yet almost taboo, almost cursed, the lustful last bite of life.
I bought a half dozen more peaches from the parent standing slightly just behind the child busy cradling them into a paper craft bag rolling them into darkness far from light and the frozen extinction crushed by the din of overpass traffic from above.
I noticed the sun fade from the earth, a scorned lover removing her gaze, until there exists a tattoo memory of love and ripening peaches.
I took the small change aware that the peaches would rot to mold, uneaten, unwanted, the pit unplanted.
A katabatic wind is a drainage wind, a wind that carries high-density air from a higher elevation down a slope under the force of gravity.
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