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.

I.

I am surprised at how simple it is.

When I first met the girl we were staring at each other across five metres of party space, ***** and blue light. It felt good.

Her number; I somehow managed it.

A week later I clear the trash and toss the unshelved books into my wardrobe and stumble off far away to buy some new bedsheets, they smell clear and clean. My desk is empty and few and neat and is everything my own head never feels like-- she arrives from her elsewhere about five minutes after this thought and we’re here, she puts her bag down, we go to the art museum, we go to the other art museum too but it’s closed, we look at each other the whole time and I don’t really register the paintings, we come back to my room and then stumble across each other’s bodies on my bed and she gives little butterfly moans and kisses in short puckery bursts. It is nice. It is simple.

II.

With the other girl we drink. There’s a secret society that I’m a member of somehow-- would you like to go with me to some party? Yes.-- and we drink. The floor is wood and aged with the fact and feet of so many dead men who didn’t look like me and wouldn’t have me here--and her too, her hair took a great deal of fuss even if it didn’t look that way-- but we drink. She wants to dance, she says, but I can’t dance so I drink. There’s something calling so she drinks. I am scared of being boring so I drink. She is scared of something else, probably work, she drinks and I’m scared for her work too, I drink, but what about me, I drink, she drinks, we drink, we kiss. I waited before it. I looked at her before sometimes but nothing, it couldn’t be simple, it isn’t allowed. We’re both so busy. You have nice eyes. Sometimes we work together. Yes, I’m funny. I’m glad you think I’m funny, too. Stop that. No. I can’t. Okay. I can. Can this be simple? We drink and kiss in the secret society and the wood creaks under us and our bodies and the other guys think I’m cool now, I guess. When it comes to snow I’ll walk her back to her work and we’ll mildly do this again. And again. Another time, too, we drink. And then we won’t, because it’s not simple. I want to have fun.

III.

When the morning comes someday I’ll wake up then make-up my bed after leaving it like I’m supposed to and it won’t matter if a girl shows up again. Okay. I don’t feel like going to class, again. Okay. I go to class this time and it’s such a bore compared to the other things that seem to me to be worth doing. Everyone in front of me and around me doesn’t seem to care, too; but they type up their notes and the lecture hall is filled with clicks and clicking and their faces are brighter because of their screens and their expressions are cold and mute. Something feels wrong. Something feels quiet even though the professor keeps talking. It’s really only been, like, ten minutes and my legs start doing the thing, my mind starts doing the thing. I think of how clean and clear my desk is.