letters to a man

dad asks on the phone what he is like and i say
he wears olive green corduroy and kisses me
on whatever part he can reach, he has wrists
like an isthmus and i count all eight bones
when they click together like river rocks over my body.

dad asks how he makes me feel and i say
have you ever eaten plums off the tree?
have you sipped pickle juice from the jar
under skin-searing sun, cut raw tuna
with the side of your fork?

i have never picked a plum with my teeth
but i imagine it never kisses back.

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