last time i saw you, you were smaller and bonier than your old tyrannosaurus self. you sat at your kitchen table, eating a stack of peaches, slurping each loudly as if it were soup. now that you’ve (re)discovered peaches at age 60, your once-hollow fridge holds other produce.
your skin was softer, wrinkled, porous. you’d pinned photos of your children on your wall. you tell yourself tales of their happy childhoods in order to quiet the questions. at night, the television holds you and whispers you, alone, to sleep.
remember when you sat on the roof of a new, jesuit building and looked straight across the ruined city to a river? when you knew you’d leap across it, and then across an entire ocean? remember when you were a little boy, before you toughened into a dinosaur?
you tell me, offhandedly: when homeless, your mother used to dream of eating peaches. you continue to slurp. your uneaten produce sits in the fridge, waiting to be eaten or thrown away. peach pits circle your elbows like fallen tears.