by Kate Asche —
No matter how many times I drop the dried cherry onto my palm, it always ends up in the center.
Should I prefer the beauty of the fruit as object—sugar-sweetened and polished with oil—or the beauty of fruit as living body: the cherry at rest in the dish, or shrinking into itself in the sun?
Pitting wounds each fruit. Drying reveals flesh to be a fragile transparency.
We once made love in a friend’s shower till my skin puckered and your tongue found the cherry-red inside me, tasting my metal.
If the sky is lifting, all the cherries must be falling.