I sift crumbs in sheets, shift in bed

as stars tick in the sky. My body moons.

It filled with milk my children drank,

and now it is black tea. The bitterness

of over-steeping wrestles with my tongue.

But I have plucked a peach from every day.

I’m fuzzy on the details of my life. Its pits

pile up inside my house. These little brains,

bright bits of flesh stuck in their creases.

I suck on them and seep the sugar out.