Cherries

- Leslie Adrienne Miller

 

Rocked in my mother’s pregnant amble,

and born into forty-five years in the dark,

the egg this child was also swayed in the arts

of lovers I took before you, fed with me

 

in the public markets of Baltimore and Denpasar

on oysters and rambutan, woke with me each year

to new waves of wander, fish and flower,

liqueur of each region, and bread of each village,

 

each cup of moonlight in the long sward

between my window and the Wannsee.

The egg he was heard and voices

of everyone I desired and held itself

 

in some deep hormonal bloom,

taking whatever was remarkable

in my life into its possibility.

We learned not to hurry in Balinese rain,

 

to listen for the rumble of wild boar

in the Malvan woods. We climbed

into planes bound for cities we’d never

visit again and skin we’d summon

 

with sobbing. And so, my husband,

as you dream of owning this child,

remember that he has ridden in my fire,

bathed in my blood, and sipped

 

at the breath I drew the first

time I saw what Rodin had clawed

from stone before he turned from Claudel

and went home for dinner and a clean shirt.

 

Remember that this child is collage

of everything before you, frangipani

and escargot, five-for-a-dollar boxes

of macaroni, and French cherries

 

from an old woman in Auvergne

who insisted on the gift

because it was so marvelous

to see a woman traveling alone.

Source: The Resurrection Trade. Copyright 2007.