my man goes on a diet so switches his pizza topping from pepperoni to chicken

we were both
twenty five
when our dads died.

his,
in 2016.
and mine,
in 2006.

he told me about
the seven hour long bus ride
from the town he was in
with his uncle, back
to the village of his birth,
his father’s death.
he told me of how
he cried so hard
on the bus that
the other passengers
were worried for his safety,
worried he might choke,
stop breathing.

there are many ways
to block an air passage.

i told him of receiving
a phone call
late on an east coast night,
how the news of death
struck me like a fist
into the stomach,
how all my air
left me.

a body in
a copy shop,
increasing obsolescence
inside of
increasing obsolescence,
is what i was
while i spoke to this man.
he,
in Gambia.
me,
on a far western coast.

i cannot understand
many of his
experiences,
despite my ability
to read.
i thank my
mother and father
for teaching me
to read,
for teaching me
to talk to people
from places i’ve never been
and cannot really ever fully
understand.

and what is there
to understand
anyway?

a man in Gambia
and a man on a different continent.
both, the same;
bodies seem so
resolute, we watch
with vigilance, trying
to see the shift,
when body turns
from separate to
encompassing,
when flesh and
blood turns to
a passage of air.