Oklahoma – State With Lowest Consumption of Produce, Highest Rate of Infidelity
They marry, Joe and Anne, buy a house, small plot.
She plants a peach tree out back.
He holds her with tenderness when she cries,
delighted, at first flowering.
Late Spring, frost threatens. Joe stands,
silent, Anne covers and warms
the white flowers and tiny fruit.
Joe buys a heifer, names her Annie,
keeps her out back in a stable, built special.
Anne pretends not to notice
the smiles when he curry-combs,
runs his fingers over the velvet of her nose, murmurs
about the percentage of marbling
as he pats his hand, thoughtfully, along her tender loins.
The peaches flush a gentle rose
over yellow, the scent intoxicates their mornings.
Anne invites Joe to test her fruit,
shows him how to squeeze for ripeness,
how a peach ready will fall away
from its stone, begging to be eaten,
promises him it will be the same season after season,
repeating the cycle of joy
from first opening to repletion.
Joe turns away, bored. He sold Annie for prime,
wants Anne to serve her, tonight, straight up,
no adornments. Anne sighs, gives him steak
topped with her peaches in a salsa spiced with jalapenos.
He levels her with a look – Henderson’s cow is calving
next week. I have a yearning for veal.