PEACH PHILOSOPHY

You must not be afraid of what waits
     after death, my past self says to me
as we share a peach slice. I don’t
     understand him—all his cryptic philosophies
& alchemies, age marks not yet claiming
     this face he has let me borrow: scarred
some, pitted, distinct as pink, ripened fruit is. 
     Still, he’s beautiful telling me the answer
to the question again & again. Will I
     have to die? Yes, he says. Obviously. 
Now I just need to understand the care he takes
     while taking a small thing apart. Each peach
he lifts from his wicker basket subtracts
     delicately from my final balance. Notching
the newly-bruised skin of several, he understands
     what it means to count flesh, whereas
I’m still learning. How is this possible?
     I say to him, my voice strange & too loud. 
Your days are adding up, clearly, he says— 
     here, have a piece, holding up a peach half. 
What does it taste like? he asks me, his breath
     a sweet impermanence. Tell me what it tastes like. 

-first appeared in Narrative Magazine