Cherrystones -- joanna vogel

Cherrystones

You led me to your back porch,
it was late in the afternoon
and there were great rounded bees
weaving about in your mother’s dahlias.
You carried a long stemmed glass, deep as a cauldron,
and a black plastic bag
weighted down with white wine and blood colored cherries.
The porch wood was warped, from years of rain and carelessness,
I lit a cigarette for the two of us and you laughed;
pointed to the burned spot of wood from your very first cigarette,
produced from your pocket a box of a different brand
and smoked your own.

Now you sat at the edge, long legs thrust
through the cracked bars of the railing
like those of a scarecrow garbed in dirt
crusted sneakers and torn denim.

But there were no crows that afternoon,
only bats, as afternoon evolved into evening,
swooping about overhead, eating insects.

We each ate nine cherries,
sucked away each fleck of flesh,
and counted out the naked stones, repeating
an unspoken wish with every one
spit into the bottom of the glass
to be covered with wine.

You filled the glass
too far up the brim to lift
without spilling.
So we sipped together
lips nearly touching, but not quite,
across the chasm of the glass’s mouth.

You kissed me,
your mouth tasted of cherries and tobacco,
and we shared the rest of the wine,
emptying the bottle,
while you promised me that my wish
would come true, without asking
what it was.

I smiled and drank your wine,
counted your cherry stones,
tasted your tongue,
and never told you,
that I hated cherries.