There are conversations that can't
be had while eating a peach,
this I think, must be one of them.

Like a cicada buzzing its wings
against light, your lips drip
with the history of flying monkeys
& how that has led to a fear of tornadoes.

Tonight the sky is not a healthy color
& you are dusting off the words
of every song your mother sang
while you tried not to cry
in front of your sisters.

You call this, "the plight
of elder siblings," I call it,
"every worst day of my life."

Our teeth are clacking on pits,
our fingers stare longingly
into our mouths, & outside,
sickly has moved on to deathly.

Lightning cuts the sky open,
curious as to how things got this bad.

We throw our peaches into the cloud's
belly, knowing it can't be
the worst thing to happen by morning

& hoping that we will never have to
be this brave again, peach or not.