BREAKFAST

For breakfast, I eat crunchy peanut butter with sliced fruit; I scrape it out of the jar, knuckles deep, with a paring knife and wipe it over my tongue, both sides, a little tension to lick it clean then I pair with a soft sweet fruit, a fruit that evaporates before the sticky butter. And when I forget to focus on eating, if I begin to dream of another’s life or consider calling my mother, then I feel both young and suddenly old; my tongue shrivels to the back of the mouth at a sensation both known and as horrific as a loose tooth rattling around and my jaw open-locks. Only a split second before I remember they’re peanuts and that I must chew, bite down hard.