hymn of three cherries and an apricot

you brought a bowl

of orchard cherries

so black red, so well read,

I blush just remembering how

they crushed and

fled their skins inside my mouth.

for the road I saved three,

and a perfect apricot sun

wrapped in a paper napkin,

but not for me. they sat

in the passenger seat, patiently,

a sweet lopsided quartet,

leaning with me around miles

of mountain curves.

the apricot went first.

(oh yes, I dared my teeth)

velvet cleavage, tart bursting

cousin of peach.

(the cherries, singing, start

to preach: O pit,

a wrinkled prayer!)

I meant to save them

for my kids, I really did.

but none were spared.

one by one, over a day

in two cars and a dim morning

kitchen, I hmmmnned them in,

and in and in.

featured on Center for Integrated Arts website, March 2009