Cherries

Thirty, forty at a time
when we were younger
before I couldn't eat
anymore for the tiny
red bumps that
marked the telltale
trail of tart juice,
cherry rash, past
my bottom lip. We
were decidedly mid-
summer if my mother
placed a collander
fresh filled with the
dewy fruit; the cry
of dismay, but no
surprise, when one
dropped deep in
the sink disposal,
lost forever to eager
fingers groping in the
downpour of the tap.
Shades of scarlet,
crimson, ruby, their
waxy shine at times
slightly scarred or
dimpled, jostled
together into
white plastic Sesame Street
bowls, hands picking
at one another to ensure
even distribution.
Popping smooth
globules into pink
puckered lips, teething
into the tight skin,
the softer, tangy flesh
underneath, faster
than we could spit
pits. And then always,
always, someone would
suddenly gesture, eyes
wide, fingertips to
throat, a small bulge
in the palate, flushed
down with water
(coughing might choke)
and a lull in cherry
chomping. Wondering
glances instead of fruit,
passed around the table
now; would a cherry tree
spring up from a sister's
stomach suddenly mid-
winter? While said
victim indicated,
perhaps an operation
might save her from
fierce death by
branch and blossom.