I.

mon chérie, my mother sighed,

exasperated from our affectionate argument about her love

for the heart-shaped drupe

a love i never understood, until i learnt the art of cherries.

II.

take a crimson and ruby-red rounded gem, slide it through satin-soft lips.

hold it gently with your teeth (don’t mar the skin), delicately pluck the stem off

Pop!

pretty, palpable echoes flutter through the air as you bite down,

glossy red skin bursts and crimples in on the sides:

a bloody, broken layer of half-dried nail polish.

sharp fangs cut cleanly through with a sense of satisfaction, like

sinking and piercing an arrow into bullseye.

teeth glide through jello that textures itself watery yet smooth.

thy tongue submerges in a fresh tartness,

dark cerise flesh that flavors itself light blends of honeyed-hibiscus tea.

now, scoop and detach the pit from the pulp, scraping—

rolling away the last of it into your sweetly rosey-tinged mouth.

III.

mother, i understand now

(the art and the act)

your idyllic laugh, your soothing smile, your cherished chérie

(your expression of love)