Night Of The Nectarine
written by: Heath Brougher
Houses with lights in their windows
run an unsteady pattern down the street.
Some porch lights are flickering here and there.
Warm waverings of too-tall trees
that lean over like a giant hug from above.
Chatter is heard from backyard patios
as I stroll through the streets,
tightrope walking, straddling the curbs,
somewhere the sound of running water soothes.
The night is lit.
There are slices of nectarines on wooden picnic tables,
again and again, here and there, a brief flicker,
luciferin love, and it’s June and here and there
is momentary light, again and again,
the lust of the smell of nectarines in the night’s air
here and there, again and again,
it’s June in flickering light, again,
here and there, we smell the nectarines in the night.
It is the Night of the Nectarine.
All the way back down the street,
strolling steadily, the floating flickering surrounding,
the smell of thick summer and fruit,
June beginning, the bulbs, the luminescence,
the fireflies illuminating the path, the heavy, the even-thicker,
the whole way back down the street
there was no need for porch lights—we walked with nature’s lamp,
the night lit to a crisp clarity by the fuses of those fireflies,
the bellies of those bugs; all the way back home,
along the hum of cricket and the smell of sweet fruit,
the June, those flickering luciferin lights leading the way.
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