eight By Amy Liu


for breakfast, peach flesh
slick and yellow —
spoken over,
butterknife dreams
love-bites across

plump curves
never said no.
eight peaches, lucky.

pits torn up,
gone out, rolling

heads and tails;
probability, ever
for breakfast,
and prayers —

peaches, ate
and drained. eight
in the can,
drowning in syrup brine.
eight accounted
for, eyelids smoothed closed,
shrouded in last light.
no more appetite
for the news. call it a
bad day.
and prayers, sticky
pulp            oozing
from holes
in hearts.
he used:
the canned
peaches left behind to expire,
the girls in the back,
the glock,
the gild.

By Amy Liu


Amy Liu is a high school student and an aspiring writer. She has been awarded National Gold and Silver medals for poetry in the Scholastic Art and Writing Awards, and serves as the news, science, and arts and entertainment editor of the Kaleidoscope newspaper.

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