Taste of Cherry

1. There is no way to tell this story.

          How she said come with me

and you did, you followed her into the bed

                    of a stolen truck, into that bar

where you shot the bartender

          and made everyone watch while you kissed her

hard and pulled the wilted orchids from her hair.

                    Threw them to the bloodstained floor.

How you wanted something

          dark and dramatic. Chamber music

at the circus. And she was so lovely, sharpening her knife,

                    shifting from one foot to the other

in the glare of headlights.

          How her breath was close and hot

against your ear and you learned to stitch a love scene

from the shredded night.

2. Maybe you should start with the boring part.

          Before the chase scene, before

Bonnie and Bonnie dropped acid and swallowed their tongues,

                    before they fell into deep, inexplicable

fucked-up love,

          you were cutting yourself on the bathroom floor,

crying in front of the mirror because the tears felt more real

                    when you watched them fall into the sink

where the jagged hairs

          your father shaved from his face the night before

made a halo around the drain. You were dreaming of stilettos

                    and fast cars, a shove-me-hard-up-against-the-wall

kind of love. You were not dreaming

3. Every story takes a wrong turn.

          Those donuts you did, laughing in the parking lot

of the police station, the blood that stained your shirt no matter

                    how hard you scrubbed. How you said

the wrong things over and over

          until she hated you. Maybe you shouldn’t have broken

a bottle over that guy’s head. You always tried to turn the smallest

                    gestures into a lesson, like that that time you wore

the I love my pussy shirt to church.

          Maybe you should have never touched her. Grinned

and sat on your hands that day in the planetarium under Ursa Minor.

                    But, you wanted a love like an air raid,

all sirens and red explosions.

          In the morning, the charred remains of everything

that came before. You wanted more scenes in which death is narrowly

                    averted and everyone dances naked in the rain,

their bodies no longer afterthoughts.

4. It began like every sweet, false myth.

          There was a pop song on the jukebox. A broken bottle

on the bar. The stars were arranged in rows, like obedient

                    children, girls. Pressed up against her,

you felt safe and warm.

          And you knew what would happen next. The snake

ready to strike, the bullet finding a body. Night.

                    The taste of cherry.

          This is the astral plane,

          this is the spirit world, she says and draws

a heart on the dirt floor with her finger.