So open-palmed: to peaches, to the swell
of a baby inside a woman’s belly
to the cheek of a woman we think
we know. So willing to share our grievances
about the length from hip to hem,
those lines up the back of the legs
being stockings, the heels over the heels
of a woman wobbling down the street
filled with bars. A sign at the market
proclaims from the fruit: don’t squeeze me
‘til I’m yours and our mouths water
even more, small boys pretend not to read
and touch the fuzz, giggling.
But the men have no excuse, you know.
The men have no excuse.