1 poem
Cherries
It’s a September summer and we’re on our porch at midnight. We take turns spitting pits, seeing
who can launch theirs the furthest. We are never unhappy together. Not when the thunder gets
loud, or one of us does something questionable to ourselves.
Moist Guinness bottles cling to our thighs. You taught me how to taste the full-bodied. How to
take a pit and weaponize it, which feels right as we swivel the fruit in our mouths. We separate
red flesh from stem too easy, like the stem was never important for the body’s growth. When we
finish you light your cigarette. I light something else. You talk about the lover 10,000 miles
away, how he places the weight of his grief on your chest alone. I talk about the boy 50 miles
away, who only knows who I am when the lights are on and we avoid politics. I sleep with him
anyway. This world is a mean one, we muse, but we don’t have to make it so for each other. We
will never stop our crying; it could lead us to the end of the world or to some underground
heaven, smelling like citrus and sunshine.
The outsides of our heels touch. Someone barbecues late; their grill smoke, like our porch
smoke, curls skyward in wisps. We collect scattered red pits in our palms. We stand, leaving
damp spots on the porch where our feet sweat through the wood.
Ola Faleti is a Chicago-based writer who loves her city. Her work has appeared in Jet Fuel Review, Hypertext Magazine, The Harpoon Review, Lunch Ticket, and elsewhere. She currently serves as the nonfiction editor for Vagabond City Lit. Ola's favorite number is 9.