The reliant tree bears forty peaches
our third orchard year. I can’t quite stitch
a connection to his children though the son’s branch
is just within reach—my stepdaughter wavers
between simmering rage and the easily bruised flesh
of an adolescent—exhausted from spurting
her growth and speaking the current ever updating

language of acronyms. No need to compete
with her best friends and birth mother—better
to harvest the tender peaches—then blanch
in boiling water before submerging in a bath
of ice—thin fuzzy skin slips off with
ease. I inhale their fragrance
search for some blend of family peace—
arrange the crescent moon slices

in a vintage LuRay dish—the pastel pink chipped
bone white on the edges. I wait
offstage for her approach—conceal
hope for any bond to take as I wipe
the counter of sticky juice and rejected
recipes. She appears—reveals
the story of her breech birth—
licks her fingers and twists
her thumb ring, explains

how the full moon smiled
at her mom during her labor’s
transition. I serve
my stepdaughter the last juicy
pieces. She’s still maturing.
I gather the almond shaped pits
to suck the strings of flesh that cling
to each crevice—I take
what’s left—
the stepmother portion.

Jenna Rindo lives with her husband on five acres in rural Wisconsin where they raised their five children. Her poems have been published in Shenandoah, AJN, Natural Bridge, Rhino, Verse Virtual, One Magazine and others. She worked in hospitals as a pediatric RN and now works with refugee students. She is a runner and biker and competes in 5K races to full marathons.