vanishing point
— Rachael Lin Wheeler
a woman i have grown up loving grills
us peaches on the front porch when i visit
there are darts & ring toss i always lose she calls me
an old name i dislike & i let her
i have learned
to desire what i could never feel
deserving enough of to hold which is to say i will desire
anything which is to say i distance
myself from being held it is safer this way
at the kitchen table i peel the fruit with my hands
take the pit’s rough weight in my palm
prepare them so the heat
may sweeten them repeat the act impatient
i split its soft self in half it feels violent
there is a ghost inside me
made of many names & of a gender i do not know
what to call in this language i try
to excavate meaning from if over & over i could
split the ghost apart would i how
to be made of fracture
without the heat of blood inside me feeling
far away the remaining skin
of the peach is not
useless i reach for it wanting to vanish a wound
i leverage my own hunger & salt take it in
my singular mouth like a beloved
i cannot help
but reach & reach toward
Read more from Issue No. 32 or share on Twitter.