peels

Seeking reprieve from that beating
sunshine, we sit under skin and bone

branches. I look at you, then whatever
you are looking at: your tired hands,

my muddy shoes, the white noise
ground beneath the two of us. I speak,

saying only what is already on my tongue,
quickly flicking and slovenly scraping

enough syllables, phrases, and praises
off of my lips to paint something abstract.

I swallow the rest of the words like an apricot’s
flesh. One last word clings to my teeth, a sliver

of peel teetering between my inhales and exhales.
I speak your name, and when I do, I breathe

it out, like I’m saying something holy,
like I’m saying something dangerous.