cherries

they start out in the neon pyramid of the grocery.
pillars of glossy, spherical, ruby red youth and resilience.
We will live forever, their brilliant, multifaceted hues suggest. We are not merely flesh which will, someday, disintegrate and return our stone hearts to the earth, we are some gorgeous jewels, representations of all that is carpe diem, all that is yours for the taking, so much so that we are in fact yours for the taking, our sweet blood, our smooth skin, our delicious, nubile bodies are all for your enjoyment, for the simple action of bagging and paying, you can take us-take us-take us-home.
who could resist them.
a vermillion chorus under translucent plastic, we succumb, and we pay and they come oh they come oh they come.
Under the bright sunshine of the lunching sun they come
under the pitiless gaze of the rearview mirror they come
like quicksilver they come
on the beach in the sand on a blanket green like a meadow they come
in my hand
in my mouth
on my face they come
and we spit their seeds at the horizon and wonder if their souls will swim to england.
who loves you?
we ask.
and in reply
they come.


and later-
when they are older-
we shelve them in cold regret.
there was too much.
our mouths sour and sore from the tearing of skins from the bitter tannons of love and passion which cling in our teeth and stain our lips the unforgiving crimson of a criminal.
we put them there and forget.
we work the week.
we eat the heat.
we reheat the sun and spoon it -bored- into our mouths in front of the shouting moon.
And the bag grows heavy,
and swollen with rot.
'til that day, we are possessed with some notion that our lives need cleansing, and we reach as far back as we have guts for, and somewhere in the slippery, cold depths, our fingers touch a memory. There have been so many other days at the beach since you came to us, and there have been so many pits buried in the sand and left to do what pits do.
And in our fist, your sagging weight is a reminder of something so sweet going so rotten, we dare not even to puncture our engorged remains and sniff at the odor of your decay. our decay.
with a sense of resignment we hurl you into the bottom of the white trash bag. a newspaper curls around you, and you seep gently, softly into its vapid, delicate layers, slowly erasing every word.