Every summer I sit and carve the flesh from peach pits with sticky hands and my grandfather’s tweezers. 
I do it until my fingers hurt and my eyes are sore, escavating the pits and divets. Scooping sugar to get closer to the poison. 
Divine fruit, peaches. Eaten on ocean cliffs, on soil in green drapery, in dirty bedrooms with the windows open. 
Divine tool, these tweezers. Kept in a metal first aid kit, having plucked splinters from babied finger tips and insect bodies from mossy bark. 
Divine job, this that I’ve given myself. Immoralizing June’s kisses and July’s bites with sticky hands and my grandfathers tweezers.