Inside, it’s cold. The density
causes ice to vomit from my mouth,
fingernails blue up to the cuticles.
If I were to examine my chest,
open my flesh and push apart my ribs,
would I see a ball of obsidian
or a fleshy, ripe peach?
With you, the limbs of the tree are always
bent with fruit
no matter if the middle of winter
grasps at its bark. Soft, plump, nourishing.
I can always pick how much I want,
cook it up and make sweet crumble
to warm our bellies.