Audrey Spensley Something like the sound of a cherry snapped from its bending branch, when your thin fingers flex on the wood and I hear your ribs purring. We were fasting for a week but kept walking into the woods past the stone church and the gate. Because the cherry was scarlet and our mother was a thin thumbtack in the fold of a white mattress. Itâ€™s not about the skin but the things that live beneath it. Beneath it I watch your fingernails teasing the skin of the cherry, its ripe-rose mouth. You lips changed when touched by the light. Light blushing the tree branches just to strip them down in winter, the new and naked sky. We talked about hunger, how wet it was, how clean. Who would call us home now? My ribs cracking like frozen branches in winter. I always thought there was something more real than our bodies. But there was only the cherryâ€” trembling in the breeze, your fingernails caressing a groove. Sweet as the inner core of a baby snake.
Published on Nov 16, 2015