Dear P., XXII
I am cutting a peach for you, trimming its
downy skin off with a knife, cutting the
flesh gift into small ships that you grab
with your fingers, mash between your lips.
The peach will take my fingerprints into
the dark hole that is you, into the flock
of your body, feed its stretching limbs.
My lumber structure takes in the peach too,
but breaks it into shanks of salt and debris,
into property. I suck around the pit, pull the
threads with my teeth. By night, I will have
shrunk, moved closer to earth. One day, I will
take the knife in my hands, break the peach
and leave its unwanted wreckage. 