Maraschino Cherry Season: A Contrapuntal*
Maraschino
She died
because we know too many
to all be kept fresh
that summer
I secretly pack her in salt
with clumsy hands, not
to keep
It’s only a matter of time
Delectable frustration
But I know she’ll be safe desiccated, obscene
the stench of bleach and piss
and still her pit will writhe
Cherry
too soon
cherries ripen
Oxblood teardrops
He pickles all of them
under the harvest moon
to sweeten, soften, crush
the bitter pith
He’ll deprive himself, wait
Skin to sugar, pulp to gorge
before he feasts
brandied little cherries
will burst on his tongue, eat
until only he is left
Season
they’ll say
in unison
shower the Earth
with liquor and syrup but
gingerly enough
To let her be dry again
alive.
for next season’s harvest
For endless easy cocktails
He needs plenty
to reap, but
even more
to let spoil.
* For the original reading experience, the author wishes readers to view the poem on the desktop which most matches the author’s intentions for the poem’s form.