Flesh-Eating Cherries

by Agatha Danielle
Issue 16: Consumed

‘Spirit Writing’. Internet Archive/Library of Congress

It was a normal summer afternoon when I
made love to burnt cherries.

Half-baked and half-held,
fingertips intrude to rearrange the shape of
softened wax (flesh) that kept me company
during the writer’s hour.

I’m pondering, I’m typing, and I’m pondering again in the belly of flames.
Hitting that “delete” button every goddamned seven seconds in.
Erasing evidence that time existed because he’s a sly fox on a throne.
And yet, the burnt cherries are now cooled deformities—kiss them, please.

If you told me love is a myth incarnate preserved
by flesh-eating truths, then at least I have loved (maybe).