Field of Cherries

A field of cherries,
Red, round and sweet,
Mounds of loamy earth,
Fragrant with juice and twigs,
Something sugary and buried.

Laying on the dirt,
Sunlight washing over us,
The thorny bushes nearby,
Cherry pits and bird bones,
Under our bottoms – under our bottoms.

We ate until we had rashes,
Spots covering our white bellies,
Under the ragged bushes,
The smell of new spring,
Hot still air surrounding us.

Rat skulls crunch under our hands,
Their tiny yellow teeth,
Curved into rodent anchors,
Snagging our palms,
Our blood surrounding the punctures.

There is a field of cherries,
Waiting in my heart,
Fruit lying on the ground,
One side plump and the other rotting,
Decaying into the earth,
Bursting open under the sky.

Twigs lay thickly in the paths,
We push our way through,
As if the bramble is water,
Clenching our cherries in our fists,
Sticky juice staining our knuckles,
Sliding over our hands, our thin fingers.

And here, a murky brook,
Moss-covered stones,
We catch the rocks,
Agate and carnelian,
Cold and hard, smooth and fine,
Our cunts are slippery pockets.

The brook is a waterway,
Our bellies roll in ecstasy as we lay down,
Curled on the muddy crick edge,
Cherries and rocks – bones and sticks,
Surrounding us as we lay hand in hand,
Your lips breathing dreams into my neck.

We are together,
Small animal skulls crackling beneath us,
The juice of the fruit dripping down our thighs,
Hot whispered breath buried between our breasts,
The fresh dirt holding us,
We are together.

About Avery Cassell

Avery Cassell is a queer butch San Francisco writer, poet, cartoonist, and artist who grew up in Iran.
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