A cherry crushed on the sidewalk
and a chorus of Spanish in the background.
Its flesh softly flattening under the ball of my sandal,
Emitting a sound like the rare puff, or POP of a small
bubblegum bubble
-wilting- but thicker.
Popping like a bubble full of marshmallow fluff and crisp
spring
salad
mix.
At the orange line in Chinatown,
every language but English being uttered around me.
Not for lack of English-speakers but perhaps
the English-speakers stay silenced.
Non-sociable.
Anyway, the cherry POPPED
under my sandal and gave way to a subdued explosion.
That deep, mauve-ish moody color
a melody
rich treachery and indulgence spreading out beneath it in a heavy ink cloud of nectar,
swilling with the July rain.
A stem, strong and capped,
reaching, angle-stretching forth –
Standing strong like a sword above the speared carnage of the body of the bleeding fruit.
A crimson cadaver.
Fresh. Flesh.
Sweetening and saddening its cool, sopping and indifferent basement of cement.
Spanish floating all around
– song for this romantic war scene.
A gloried, sorrowed death.
