I have come to rely on the air to fill
the crevices in my body.
Heavy, I drop at my father’s feet.
He half-holds me like a bag of apples,
I drip winesap, gala.
He examines me, finds my rough spots
brown holes where worms chewed through,
left me softened.
We sit up all night
stir our thoughts into tea,
until the sun squeezes up over the hill.
I’m reminded of the stove’s open eye
when dad lit a cigarette from the burner
because I hid all the Y