Was it the mulberries or the peach pits
that made us so sick?

I know it was you who taught me
how to eat mulberries and they
made us dizzy enough to lean
on wooden fences and pretend
that we could build new stars
from bottle rockets-- I never
liked the taste of breakfast 
when it simmers like a fried egg--
I can feel so much oil under my skin
from what I remember of being sick
off of mulberries. Mulberries
taste like watermelons when
it's July and you're not supposed to eat
them anymore and I told
you I loved you to try to mean it.
I made pancakes with mulberries
and bracelets with mulberries
and strung them around my room until 
they rotted and made everything
sick like wilting August-- but
we kept eating them and eating
them until we forgot that God made
honeysuckles and spearmint leaves
and yogurt. There was only mulberries.
When I first met you I kissed you 
with a peach pit that you threw back
into the garden. Years later 
we will return to find that a tree
has grown only it isn't a peach 
and there will be piles of mulberries 
like maple leaves. We can gather them
up to make a sort of jam to send
each other on Christmas and 
other holidays when I think
about breakfast and beach houses
and VHS tapes stacked underneath 
bunk beds like a books store.
Pick one for me and tell me
that we're brand new like DVDs
or pancake breakfasts.
You know when I kiss people
sometimes it still tastes like
syrup and the rip mulberries
we used to lean on like stars.