Black Cherry

Intense girl stares down at paper,
zeroes in on the black heart of
her heroine. How must the
senses submerge? Ben Howard
sings “these small things, they gather
’round me, gather ’round me.” My
nail polish, black cherry, chips.
I was the teenage girl in English
class, noticing more.
Senses crawled and roared
and spit and wept.

Now I sit beside the fire,
legs curled in one domestic
contortion or another. And you,
all grace and eternity, wash
your hands and forearms
at the sink.

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