He will forever be
in his poetry notebook
behind my black-and-white poster,
next to ashes—his ashes—I smuggled
through customs in two different countries,
thinking he'd probably do the same for me;
After all, he was the one who taught me
how to smuggle things through airports in the first place.

We would both laugh
that I managed to bring a part of him all the way here,
like we'd laughed when he brought **** in his backpack
from Canada to the U.S., and from the U.S. to South America.
Who can blame him? Canadians have the best ****.
I bet he'd like that I made the inverse journey
with him, or what I have left of him,
and that he's not just at the bottom of some ocean,
or worse, at our mum's.

Approaching customs, my father slowed the car.
"Time to eat! he said, and pulled us to the side.
He'd bought peaches from a fruit stand,
Forgotten they'd never cross the border.

Never one to waste, his plan unfolded.
We stood beside the car, peach juice
Trickling down our arms,
Falling at our elbows,
Gorging a delicacy turned to glut,
Making memories of forced generosity,
Gluttons of fruit, victims of parsimony.

My mother knew what was coming:
The cramps we kids would have
From smuggling peaches
In stretched bellies
Into Canada.