What does one who grants you the kindness of a living body
want from you in return but an understanding of what it means to feel alive?
—“Window” by Forugh Farrokhzad, translated by Elizabeth T. Gray, Jr.
Think of a peach. Think of it
suckling sunlight until it dries out.
Grind your teeth on the craters.
I, too, turn to leather
without the wet spit
of a kiss. Think of candied
peach bits. Drown
sorrow in a sugar barrel.
Sweeten solitude.
Honey coat eagerness
in artificial love. Sucralose.
Silicone. Stomach aches
from the excess. I miss
the scarcity of organic.
Loneliness has a bitter
aftertaste. In it, I forget
how my own tongue tastes
like twisted apricot.
I am not comparing
dryness to death.
I am telling you
that I miss the plumpness
of fruit in fullness.
I miss the sweet tint of it
in my gin and tonic.
Let me twist
the orange skin
and set it on a glass rim.
I fantasize about
chipping my tooth
on a cherry pit and begging
another tongue to make
up for it, clashing
enamel in the throws
of a messy kiss: soft pulp,
honey gums, candy spit.