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"forgodssake" poems
Somehow, I managed to get to my thirties without eating a cherry --- a fresh one, anyway, raw, untamed, unshelved, and forgodssake, unmarischinoed. I had them in pies, gooey, sickening, too much syrup, and in sundaes --- again, not real, a turn-off, saw people tie the stems in knots, I had the impression, I think, that if people had to do all the things they do with cherries to make them flavorful, they must be really **** straight out of the bag. I made my mind up that they were unpleasant and I would have nothing to do with them. Even, or especially, in chocolate-covered cherries, which my mother loved, so I wanted to love, I could at best eat the chocolate around that thick viscous sugary embryonic fluid wherein lay the embittered, unborn and unloved cherry and not the coveted prize. So imagine that day when, careless at a cocktail party, or at someone's house, hungry, I nibbled at a fresh one, deep red and whole, gingerly working my way around the stem and coming awake to ohmygod what have I been missing all these years? They still seem brand new now, every time, a delicacy, something wealthy people indulge in and so not really belonging to my world. They beg for the company of wine and the most delicate cheeses, they ask to be shared and doted on. The keep revealing themselves, on the plate, unadorned, and they keep reminding me to try something else that I have never tasted, like complete and utter honesty, or looking at myself naked, without judgment, even at the innermost feminine parts, upside down with a mirror until I see why they say making love for the first time is giving away your cherry.
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Jul 31, 2014
Jul 31, 2014 at 1:03 PM UTC
tamara-miles
Ode to the Cherry
Somehow, I managed to get to my thirties without eating a cherry --- a fresh one, anyway, raw, untamed, unshelved, and forgodssake, unmarischinoed. I had them in pies, gooey, sickening, too much syrup, and in sundaes --- again, not real, a turn-off, saw people tie the stems in knots, I had the impression, I think, that if people had to do all the things they do with cherries to make them flavorful, they must be really **** straight out of the bag. I made my mind up that they were unpleasant and I would have nothing to do with them. Even, or especially, in chocolate-covered cherries, which my mother loved, so I wanted to love, I could at best eat the chocolate around that thick viscous sugary embryonic fluid wherein lay the embittered, unborn and unloved cherry and not the coveted prize. So imagine that day when, careless at a cocktail party, or at someone's house, hungry, I nibbled at a fresh one, deep red and whole, gingerly working my way around the stem and coming awake to ohmygod what have I been missing all these years? They still seem brand new now, every time, a delicacy, something wealthy people indulge in and so not really belonging to my world. They beg for the company of wine and the most delicate cheeses, they ask to be shared and doted on. The keep revealing themselves, on the plate, unadorned, and they keep reminding me to try something else that I have never tasted, like complete and utter honesty, or looking at myself naked, without judgment, even at the innermost feminine parts, upside down with a mirror until I see why they say making love for the first time is giving away your cherry.
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