Eau de Vie
Unpacking groceries in your Oakland kitchen,
you pull an apricot from your bag,
dig your thumbnails into the tiny well where the stem had been
and crack the fruit in half.
The cavity left by the stone, a dry, pebbly creek bed,
the fruit pulpy and fragrant.
Not the best, you say, but good to me.
Back in Florida, rain,
You say you don't have these storms out there.
The plums here are not nearly as good
as the ones you fed me in California.
And apricots, I cannot even find them.
So this is our trade-off:
lightning for stonefruit—
plums, peaches, apricots.
And for my last dinner in California,
a small tulip glass of eau de vie,
flashing bright and crystal clear,
bushels of apricots distilled,
on currents of alcohol,
traded, once again, for lightning.