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Fruitful Devastation
They are taken away, stolen from their
homes. Ripped with rancor then cleft. Their
lives no longer bathed in the South African sun; their
bodies no longer vested in the vast glades of grass. Instead:
boxed, piled, crowded into cool, dank, depths. Water and an
insufferable heat. Their outsides loosen, no longer tight and taut.
Discoloration may occur. The absolute black of night comes;
they sit, enclosed—awaiting the unknown certainty of the
day. What remains may be butchered further in violent
strokes of the silver blade. Amid this torture—no
screeches. These are the lives of canned peaches.
-By Michael Fauver
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