Robert Carr

Cherries

Basin of summer on wrought
oak dining table. A brick
clay bowl filled with pits.

The men around my table
speak in baritones. Pleasure groans.
(More important than words.)

I’m smitten by the taste of cherries
lowered into mouths. Spit. Sweet
skins broken. Poison in sealed stones.

It’s just after midnight. Rosiest
fruit consumed, crimsoned puckers kiss
my lips goodnight and whisper

Goodnight Bobby. I sit alone
in candlelight, carry soaked bowls
to the sink. I drop spent stems

into disposal and pour the pits
in my mouth. Cheeks filled, I roll remains
on my tongue, swallow fleshy remnants,

seeds falling into cupped palms.
I’ve placed my memories in a jar.
All my teeth are missing.

 

 

 

 

 

 

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