peeling

in the winter, prickly pears 
grow all over my body, mistaking
me for a cactus. they're plump
& full of purple-maroon juice.
bumpy & smooth, their surfaces
are like the bodies of some unknown fish.
i pluck them off when i come home
but they re-grow more vigorously.
fruit is most most wild at night.
contagious, they
sprout all over the house. 
they love desserts & deserts. 
the fruit crawling
up the archways of doors
& up the bed posts. 
they assemble to form a chandelier 
hanging from
the ceiling of the living room. 
they don't get you though, 
they leave you alone. 
is it because you're
not like a cactus? 
the heater makes the house 
into a dry yellow cake
& the skin on my finger nails frays 
like sand, but that's not
why this is a desert. 
it's a dessert because
the sand has always been sugar,
brown rich richer. 
you tell me again 
about the Sonoran desert
as i work, picking the pears, 
you talk about the alien creatures
that scurry across it 
& they come into my living room, 
sidewinders & javelinas,
eating prickly pears off
the coffee table.
i remove the fruit   
from my body as i stand
at the sink, peeling 
the purple-green skin off 
each one, digging my fingers
into the grainy flesh inside.
it hurts my own muscles, 
but only vaguely, 
& i eat the insides 
of each fruit. 
this is routine now
as december walks into
the house &  lays on 
the welcome mat, 
a fallen cactus.
i look down & the skin 
on my legs is bumpy & 
purple-green. i dig in
with my nails, peeling it off gentle 
so as to keep 
the sweet purple flesh
intact. it tastes like
watermelon & gravel.
we share it & wash
off our bloody mouths
in the sink, 
peel off the cactus
skin on the bed
& crawl inside
to become sand
or sugar.