Here is the question of peaches, the fleshy way they twirl against one another in comment. The hint of a breath, the rise of the back, the shoulders. The question of tables heavy with the typical weights of a family. Car keys. House keys. Office keys. Things that are not keys but take all bodies from one another anyway.
Here is the comment a question of peaches makes, the winding street from the table to the bedroom where, not them, but lovers like them curl against one another, not in desperation or aching or need, not with any hint of future heartbreak but coolly and righteously they are gathered in the present. The angular rough sound of breathing through the gauzy panel, the walls.
Here is the gift of the comment a question of peaches makes, that tomorrow lilies will be blooming in the bathroom. The ice fingering its way across the January window where it glistens and cracks into prisms. The radiant heat settling in around the jagged air of the rooms, the click and hush.
Here is the moral of the gift a question of peaches makes, the fleshy way they twirl against one another in comment and the pattern their soft bodies make is the press of bottled peaches against the glass, an impossible orange. The hands brushing then turning, the nicks of the wrists as they turn, the balance. The bare feet shuffling, the glide of their pushing, shushing, the belief. The cold memory around them, despite their efforts to warm it. The drag of their lips, a tomorrow, an answer.
