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.