Parfait

Walks with my family

down to the ice cream place,

and eating a peanut butter parfait

right in front of them,

I imagined I was eating myself.

The first layer was always

the part of me that might

regenerate into a tree

or some dog barking at a clothesline

somewhere in Peru,

much different than the second

layer which was always the soul

or what the body contained.

Which was the final layer.

After the body was gone

I couldn’t find a me anywhere.

But maybe the mystery of the me

is like the sun,

and only appears to vanish,

when in fact

it’s just the ground we’re standing on

that makes a wall

so we can’t see it for a little while.

Of course there’s always the tiramisu

down the street by the theatre,

or the vegan carrot cake

in the place over by the bridge

to pass through.

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